


Make Me a Headline (I Want to Be That Bold)

by dicta_contrion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Feelings, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicta_contrion/pseuds/dicta_contrion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco never expected to see Harry doing <i>that</i> again. Especially with someone else, in a grainy photograph that's landed on his desk one Monday morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Extortion

**Author's Note:**

> Firethesound, this prompt ran away with me. It may no longer bear any resemblance to what you had in mind, and I miiiiight owe you an apology for that word count, but they wanted to have feelings, and aren’t those always a pain in the arse? In any event, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for sparking this story. I had a lot of fun with it, and hope you have some too.
> 
> Title is from the Sleater-Kinney song “Bury Our Friends.”
> 
> Huge thanks to d for the multiple rounds of beta action, to S for pre-reading and talking things through at critical junctures, and to the mods for being patient and supportive and generally wonderful.

There are, Draco thinks, a number of fairly obvious conclusions to draw from the war. Dark Lords: terrible house guests, generally not to be trusted. Parents: occasionally quite useful, but disappointingly fallible. Epic battles: more terrifying, less exciting than advertised. Politicians: exceedingly stupid, unfortunately promiscuous in their receptivity to favours. No loyalty anymore, his father had proclaimed shortly before leaving the country, as though hearkening back to some probably-mythical age when Wizengamot members had been loyal flunkies.

No matter. The Cuffe family had been just as stupid, in considerably greater need of fluid assets, and offering a far less revocable exchange. For 250,000 Galleons, the Malfoys had purchased the  _Prophet_ and, with it, unlimited good press, the appearance of ethical standards, and a renewed handle on politics; Ministry types are even more responsive to bad press than to bribes, and the interactions are considerably cleaner.

And, at times, considerably more interesting. Particularly when they involve the delivery of semi-pornographic photos to one’s desk on a Monday morning.

Mondays are a particularly ripe time for it, with all the photographs from the weekends’ events developed and ready for perusal. It doesn’t hurt that Draco has trained the head of Fashion and Lifestyle to bring him only those items that might require special editorial consideration. Which is to say, the really salacious bits.

This morning is no exception. Draco gives hearty approval to a set in which Gwenog Jones is using a table for a dancefloor and Dai Llewellyn as a pole at Firewhisky Mist. He vetoes ones of Mrs Zabini, wand out, “wooing” one of the lesser Muggle royals poolside at Shoreditch House, but gives Higsbee permission to print Oliver Wood stumbling drunk from the Fourth Broomstick with an arm around the girl Weasley. Good for circulation; Wood’s star may be fading, but Weasley’s isn’t.

Higsbee passes him the last folder with a promising eagerness. He may be a squeaky, fumbling sort of a man, but there are solid reasons why he’s editor, among them that he understands the advantages of leaving his editor-in-chief smiling.

Draco takes the folder eagerly. Even with eight years under his belt, the whole process still rivals caffeine for a Monday morning pick-me up.

The first few photos are so grainy that Draco has to spell open his office curtains and cast a _Lumos_ over the image. He spares a frown for Higsbee, who urges him to keep going.

The next few are clearer. Much clearer. Two men, caught in a passionate – well, embrace might be a bit generous.

Though “generous” is not a concept Draco’s particularly concerned with when he realises who he’s looking at. The height, the dreadlocks, the line of a face caught in profile. Oh, yes. He can certainly work with this. It’s material for the front of the section. Probably would be even if Lee Jordan hadn’t turned him down in favour of the WWN.

He grins at Higsbee and is a bit surprised to be met with a look of hesitation. His approval is rather hard to come by. Usually, it leaves Higsbee so flustered Draco has to kick him out.

“Out with it.”

Higsbee coughs. “Er, as it seems you can see, sir, the identity of one of the figures in this set is fairly easy to discern. It’s the other we’re a bit concerned about.”

“Hmm.” Draco pulls the photos towards him and takes another look. The man’s on the ground before Jordan. His face is mostly hidden inside of Jordan’s pea coat, but his head is moving just enough to make it abundantly clear what they’re up to. Draco squints, and looks down again. The other man’s wearing a leather jacket. His hair looks like it doubles as a wildlife conservatory. Still not enough to go on.

He reaches for a magnifier and places it over the photo. The man’s jaw looks familiar, though there’s not much of it to see. Draco scans down the tiny, black-and white form. He’s got a nice arse. One hand braced against the brick, one knee on the ground, the other raised, and—

Draco’s heart plummets. He grips the magnifier, doesn’t move, certain that he can’t afford to have a reaction. Couldn’t even if his underling wasn’t just across the desk.

Apparently, Higsbee takes his silence for focus and starts in on a ramble. “You see, sir, policy is unclear.”

Draco can feel his heart all the way to his eardrums.

“Between his hair, his height, and the way his face is turned, we can clearly identify Mr Jordan as a public figure, in which case we are able to print.”

The tips of his fingers have gone numb. He breathes. Reminds himself to blink.

“It’s the other man, the man Jordan’s— er. That he’s, um—”

“Face-fucking?” Draco spits the word as though it’s distasteful. It is.

“Er, yes, sir. That he’s – as you said.”

Draco schools his features and looks up. There’s a nervous flush creeping up Higsbee’s neck, which at least does something to put Draco at ease. “And?”

“It’s a question of editorial policy, sir, and possibly of liability. We can’t definitively identify the other man—”

“You can’t?”

“Er?” Higsbee furrows his brow. “No, sir. None of us in Fashion and Lifestyle can, and if it’s a private citizen or someone with business interests…” He trails off at Draco’s glare. “I – should we be able to?”

Draco ignores Higsbee’s question in favour of his own. “You really can’t?”

“Er.” Higsbee’s cheeks colour. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Without looking at them, Draco returns the set of photos to their folder and shoves them into his desk. “I’ll handle this.”

“Sir?”

“I will handle this.”

“I – sir, are you able to identify—”

“You’ll have an answer by tomorrow.”

Higsbee hesitates.

“I trust you have something else to run in the meantime?”

“Of course, sir!” He’s starting to resemble a tomato.

“Very well.”

Higsbee pauses, awaiting further instruction.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Oh!” He jumps to his feet and stumbles out towards the cacophonous newsroom, barely remembering to close the door behind him.

The folder is back on Draco’s blotter in an instant.

He grabs the reading glasses from the back of the drawer as well, and brings the photos in for closer scrutiny. The unkempt hair, the stubby fingers at the end of a leather sleeve, the hair, the knobbly knees, one raised for stability. Raised so he can really take it.

Draco knows exactly who this is. And if his heart is pounding, if he can’t feel his toes, it’s just surprise. It’s been years. He never thought he’d see this again.

Besides which, it’s a shocking lapse from his employees. The _Prophet_ ’s editorial team is in a constant, ceaseless, high-priority hunt for pictures of Potter, and when several land on their desks they don’t even recognise him.

He looks again. The hair is the same as it had been, then, as is the way he moves. Draco follows the line of his arm, thinks he can make out Potter’s fingers spread against the brick.

He looks for the other arm, wonders if Potter’s habits have changed at all. Then realises his arm is concealed. By Jordan. Realises it’s not just a picture of Potter sucking cock; it’s a picture of Potter sucking someone else’s – Lee Jordan’s – cock.

The pictures are shoved haphazardly to the back of a drawer before a sudden wave of nausea can turn into something more serious.

He pushes back from his desk. Forces himself to inhale slowly, count down from ten, exhale slowly, repeat. Tries to slow his racing mind.

Draco has a drinks cabinet in his office for the obvious reasons: loosening informants’ lips, putting troublesome staff at ease before a good bollocking, an occasional congratulations for some intrepid reporter or other, drinking.

It’s the last of these that inspires him to make for the cabinet, but he pauses with his hand on the door.

The cabinet serves another purpose: the discrete storage of an array of useful magical objects. His Pensieve has pride of place among them.

He may know, but it’s apparent that his staff are less familiar with the intricacies of Potter’s habits. And, he reasons, what if they’re right? What if he’s opening the paper to liability by misnaming Potter? He has to be sure. Has to check, for the sake of thoroughness. For professional obligation.

One unlocking and two levitation spells later, Draco pops the well-worn cap off a memory and pours its contents into the bowl.

He bends forward, and lets himself fall.

Suddenly, he’s twenty again. Or, the version of him in the Pensieve is. Twenty and just this side of properly drunk and leaning against Harry Potter’s kitchen worktop with a pint in one hand, and laughing at some inane joke of Potter’s. He was so full of them, all the time. In those days Harry’d been so eager to laugh. To make Draco laugh. Desperate for it, almost. And he’d succeeded, time and again.

He does in the memory. Leans in, slips his arm between Draco’s hip and arm so he’s leaning on the worktop too. He nips Draco’s ear before he whispers, “What do you get when you mix holly and hawthorn?”

Draco’s younger self peers down at Harry, bemused. “A Herbology lesson?”

“No.” Potter laughs, his breath ghosting over Draco’s neck, and Draco—older Draco—still remembers that better than he’d like to. The heat of it, the trace of hops. “Our wands, rubbing together.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” It doesn’t, but that doesn’t matter. Older Draco is embarrassed at the speed with which his younger self colours, at his involuntary bucking when Potter’s hips suggest a deeper meaning to the punchline.

“Does if you try it,” Potter mumbles, dropping his free hand to younger Draco’s trousers.

“Oh?”

Potter makes quick work of Draco’s flies and slips his hand into Draco’s pants. “Need a demonstration?”

“Yeah,” younger Draco whispers. “Volunteering?”

“Oh, yeah.” Potter nods. “Though…” He trails off, palming Draco’s erection.

“Harry,” Draco pleads.

Potter’s eyes lock onto him. He looks hungry and intense, halfway to combusting, and he kisses Draco with a still-unrivalled intensity that makes Draco’s—both Dracos’—knees threaten to give way. Potter nips at his bottom lip and breathes into him, and younger Draco is visibly bereft when Potter pulls away.

Until Potter drops to his knees, pulling Draco’s trousers and pants down to mid-thigh as he goes. He looks up at Draco with that same insatiability, and he doesn’t look away as he swallows Draco’s cock.

Draco bucks into him with a throaty groan. Potter doesn’t back away. He hums his approval and meets Draco’s hips. He raises one knee to steady himself, braces a hand against the cupboard, and opens his throat. They establish a rhythm, Draco fucking Potter’s face and Potter urging him on with a flick of his tongue. Potter’s fingertips dig into his arse to pull him closer until Draco is gripping Potter’s mad, flyaway hair and chanting, “I’m gonna come, fuck Potter, I’m gonna shoot down your throat, fuck, you’re gonna taste me for days, fuck, fuck, yeah, like that,” and Potter still doesn’t pull away. He smiles around Draco’s cock and buries his nose in the blond curls at Draco’s base and hums and sucks until Draco comes, gasping for air and yelling for Merlin. Potter sits back and waits until he catches Draco’s eye, pointedly swallows, and grins up at him looking so fucking _satisfied_.

Draco watches himself reach down to run a thumb over Potter’s jaw, over his chin, to rest the pad of it on Potter’s flushed bottom lip, matching Potter’s grin with one of his own.

He shuts his eyes tight and pulls himself out of the memory.

The breathlessness that had made sense in the memory is an embarrassment in Draco’s office. He leans back in his chair, eyes still closed, and shoves a hand into his trousers to do away with an erection he doesn’t want to have, and knows won’t go away. He comes in his pants, lips pressed tightly together to trap any errant groans or, worse, names. He doesn’t lift his lids until he’s groped for his wand and cast a cleaning charm. Until all the evidence is gone.

All that’s left, then, is the decision.

Printing the photos would take Jordan down a peg. A well deserved reprisal after the glory hound insisted on going to work for Draco’s competitors. It would look awfully bad for a man who’s made his name in investigative journalism to be caught in an illicit dalliance with the Deputy Head Auror. Depreciate the WWN’s investment in Jordan’s contract, perhaps considerably. It all sounds amusing enough for a Monday morning, in any event.

Then there’s the possibility of a libel suit. But Draco’s certain, wholly certain, that this is a picture of Harry Potter sucking Lee Jordan off in the alley behind the Funky Merlin. Certain enough to risk a lawsuit. Potter would never be able to testify under Veritaserum that this isn’t him, and Draco could testify under Veritaserum that it is.

No, if Potter reacts, it won’t be in the Wizengamot. Potter’s always valued his privacy. As much as the _Prophet_ has, not unsuccessfully, tried to dismantle it, they’ve never caught anything like this before. Potter’s never been so careless before. For all Draco knew, he’d spent the last decade celibate.

Point being, there hasn’t been anything to print that would’ve put Potter at risk for such un-heroic exposure. Nothing that would’ve used something Potter’s done or somewhere he’s been to put any member of his inner circle in line for public scrutiny, and if Draco ever knew him at all, that’s more likely than anything to set him off.

He reaches for a quill.

 _Higsbee –_  
_Print, early edition, top of the section with front page teaser._  
_Use Jordan’s name. Don’t worry about the other man._  
_-DM_

*    *    *

Four major war and post-war expenses had almost put a noticeable dent in the Malfoy coffers: Voldemort’s extended stay (for someone supposedly obsessed with world domination, he’d had a surprising amount of attention left for scrutinising wine labels, place settings, and guests lists); “donations” to charities (and “charities”) run by members of the Wizengamot; the purchase of the _Prophet_ ; and Draco’s redecoration of the Manor. In company, Draco would maintain that the last was a matter of simple preference.

In practise, though, sitting down to breakfast at a table that has never been graced with the Dark Twat’s presence, in a sunny room, in chairs that are far too comfortable to ever be repurposed for actual or social torture, is entirely necessary. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Pleasant. Usually.

“Draco. _Draco!_ ”

He doesn’t look up. “Tea?”

“What?”

“You’re screeching. As it’s a bit early for drinks, I’ll assume you need caffeine.”

“What I need, Draco, _darling_ ,” Pansy spits, “is your attention.”

“Busy.”

Blaise is, happily, more amused than annoyed. “Don’t you generally take reader correspondence at the office?

“Yes.” Draco sets down one letter and takes up the next, ignoring Pansy’s crossed arms and pout.

“So you’ve had it sent on to the Manor because…?”

“Because you invited yourselves to breakfast.”

“As we do at least thrice weekly without any meaningful objection,” Blaise muses.

“If your plan was to ignore us, we would’ve just gone to Pennifold’s of Diagon Alley,” Pansy adds with a sniff.

“It could not have been my plan to ignore you, as it was not my plan to have you for breakfast at all.” Draco pulls the paper from under a pile of discarded parchment. “C1. What do you see?”

Pansy brightens immediately and snatches the paper from Draco’s hand. Blaise stands to lean over her chair. They bow their heads together, scrutinising, whispering, while Draco tried to focus on another letter.

To no avail.

“Oooooooh,” Pansy breathes. “Jordan, eh? Well done.”

“Indeed,” Blaise adds. “Good catch. Because he went to the WWN?”

“Mmm,” Draco agrees.

“And the other fellow? He’s not named.”

“Oh, true.” Pansy sits back, surprised. “Couldn’t get a name?”

Draco drops the letter and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t tell?”

Pansy and Blaise share a puzzled look and Draco suppresses a sigh. Pans is one of the best gossips in wizarding England, knows most everything about everyone. If she can’t figure it out, there’s little hope that anyone will.

“No,” Pansy breaks the silence first, pulling the paper closer towards her. “How would we, darling? It’s hair and a back.”

“And a hand and a knee,” Draco grumbles

Blaise quirks an eyebrow over the top of the broadsheet. “Not exactly identifiable features.”

“Apparently,” Draco mumbles, gesturing to the pile of correspondence scattered across the table. “Everyone’s got an opinion on Jordan or wants to know who his mystery man is, but nobody’s got it right.”

Pansy sets the paper down in front of her. “And you do?”

“Of course,” Draco scoffs, quickly adding, “it’s my business to know.”

“Private investigator?” Blaise asks, dropping back into his seat.

Draco stares at him, suspicious. “Common sense and a good eye. You really can’t tell?”

“Obviously not.” Pansy answers for them both with more than a hint of impatience. Blaise concurs with a nod.

“You know him.”

Blaise takes a turn at eyebrow-raising. “Do we?”

Pansy reopens the paper with a frown. “It’s not a woman is it?” At Draco’s shake of the head she continues. “The hair - McLaggen? No, his is curlier. Too short to be Abercrombie. Baddock’s got longer fingers. Harper’s vegan now, and that jacket looks like real leather.” She looks up with a sharp laugh. “It’s not a Weasley, is it? That would be rich. And about right, come to think of it.”

“You really don’t see it?”

“We might if you’d bloody well tell us.”

Draco frowns, squares a pile of letters and pushes them aside. “Pass the strawberries, would you?”

*    *    *

Draco hears versions of the same conversation all morning. Which, on the one hand, means they’ve got another exclusive that has chins wagging from Diagon Alley to Hogsmeade, and he can order a second printing before lunchtime.

And, on the other, means Draco is more firmly convinced than usual that he is surrounded by blind idiots.

Jordan releases a statement shortly after lunch. Unexpectedly, it affirms, in so many words, that he is indeed a desirable young man with an active social life who appreciates the _Prophet _’s__ support in his campaign to become one of _Witch Weekly’_ s Most Desirable Bachelors.

He does not, however, mention his mystery man, much to the public’s consternation. The buzz infiltrates even the Prophet’s own newsroom. Draco can’t leave his office without overhearing such a ceaseless stream of questions–“Who’s the lucky bloke?” “What I wouldn’t give to trade places…” “Do you think he’ll come forward?”—that he’s half-tempted to release Potter’s name just to be free of the speculation.

He decides not to think about why he’s not done it already. Except that there are perfectly reasonable reasons. It would be clumsy to release the information after the fact. It would be more transparently pointed, and while the Malfoy name is in far better standing than it was a decade ago, anything that appears to smear Potter remains inadvisable. He could frame it as a scandal though, he realises. They’d need to cook up some twaddle about photo verification processes to explain the delayed release of information, but he could do it. Some sensationalistic headline implying that Potter was a dirty Auror, or Jordan reliant on corrupt inside sources. Isn’t that the whole point of owning the press, after all?

But then, Draco reasons, what if there are more useful things to be gained from it all?

He shuts his office door and pulls out quill and parchment. It’s not easy to strike the right tone and it takes him several tries, but he is, after all, a Slytherin, and a Malfoy to boot.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_As a longtime subscriber, we here at the Prophet would like to remind you that your home delivery will be coming up for renewal._

_The Daily Prophet is at the centre of the wizarding world, bringing you the best in politics, news, sports, and – perhaps of particular interest – fashion and lifestyle. From nightlife to Wizengamot votes, the Prophet has you covered._

_Our customer service department offers many excellent offers for loyal readers like yourself. Don’t let your subscription lapse!_

_Yours sincerely,_  
_Draco L. Malfoy_  
_Editor-in-Chief, Daily Prophet_

When he sees the owl take to the sky, parchment attached to its ankle, Draco smiles. Which makes it easier to ignore the distinct queasiness that’s made a sudden appearance.

He decides to chalk it up to hunger and goes home.

*    *    *

Draco’s Wednesday starts with a bang. Quite literally, as his office door slams open at five past nine, reverberating against the wall on impact.

“What the bloody motherfucking hell do you think you’re doing?”

Draco freezes. There’s a lot to take in at once.

Potter cuts an imposing figure. He isn’t taller than he was at 20, nor has he filled out much in the intervening decade, but that much Draco knows from the papers. From the relentless parade of photos he prints—has to print, really, to compete with _Witch Weekly._

But photos don’t capture everything.

Potter clearly isn’t as self-conscious as he’d once been and his magic—his magic has always been able to fill a room, but nine years in the field has made it an extension of him, something he can shape and direct without even meaning to. Draco can almost feel it reaching for him, surrounding him.

Though it doesn’t feel as though there’s anything intentional behind this display. It reeks of Potter’s unbridled anger. Passion. Whatever one wants to call it, it’s more familiar than it has any right to be.

“Good morning, Potter.” He plasters a smile over his shock. “To what do we owe the honour?”

“You bloody well know what, you fucking wanker.”

With a wave of his wand, Draco closes the door. “Wanker? If you’ll recall, that was never my preference.”

Potter eyes fill with rage. “Fuck. Off.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” Draco leans quickly to the right, cleanly dodging the familiar-looking piece of parchment Potter hurls at his head. “Use your words. This is a newsroom, not a nursery school.”

“You’re a right piece of work, you know that?”

“Yes.” Draco folds his hands neatly on the blotter.

Potter gapes, working his jaw open and shut wordlessly.

“Use your words, Potter. This is a newsroom, not an aquarium.”

Somehow, Potter manages to rise to the occasion. “Why did you print it? And why, having printed it, like a more-invasive-than-usual fucking dickhead, did you send me that worthless fucking piece of—first letter in ten years, Draco, and it’s a fucking subscription notice.”

“Form letter.”

“Bullshit. It was personalised and in your handwriting.”

Draco’s teeth are beginning to hurt from biting down on his smile. “Magical form letter.”

“Liar. You’re such a liar.”

“Believe what you want, but do it elsewhere.”

“The photo. You’ve never printed anything like it before. Why?”

Draco’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t say that it’s because they’ve never had anything like it to print before, nor does he ask whether there should have been, whether his photographers are off the ball and public blow jobs are actually a regular routine of Potter’s. Instead, he doubles down on his smile. “We didn’t print your name, as you undoubtedly know. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“A prof—” Potter splutters. “You fucking– _professional courtesy_?? Since when have we ever been about professional courtesy? And,” he rants on, thankfully taking the burden of a response squarely off of Draco’s shoulders, “if all it’s bloody about is professional courtesy, you might want to try having some. Lee’s worked damn hard for his career and you have no business trying to ruin it with your petty fucking salacious allegations.”

“Salacious? Have you been reading the dictionary?”

Potter gives a disdainful snort. “Don’t change the subject. Why? That angry he went to work for someone else? Still brassed off about his Quidditch commentary? Decided to give up on the idea of scruples full stop? Or is it not actually about Lee?” He ends with a pointed stare, which Draco elects to ignore.

“You’ve come all the way over here and barged into my office uninvited to protect Jordan’s reputation, have you?”

“He’s my friend,” Potter bites out. “And you’ve crossed the line.”

“Your _friend_ doesn’t seem to mind in the least.”

“Lee has a great sense of humour. You, on the other hand, were petty and cruel and you have no right to defame upstanding citizens.”

Draco leans forward, lacing his fingers together so tightly his knuckles ache. But it’s worth it. He’s wholly determined not to rise to Potter’s bait. “And kneeling citizens? Anything to say about them?”

“It’s none of your bloody business who I kneel for. You made damn sure of that.”

“Ah, but it is my business.” Draco takes his first full breath as he feels the conversation moving to more familiar territory.

“How the hell do you figure that?”

“Quite literally. Printing that photo got us almost a full double run, between Jordan and that bit about Jones and Llewellyn. Imagine the numbers if we’d named you. If we named you now.”

“So?” Potter snorts. “Go on then, Malfoy. Show the world the kind of operation you’re running.” His eyes flare. “It’s exactly what your father would’ve wanted.”

Draco’s out of his seat before he even realises it. “So sanguine, are you? Think it’s all just a game?”

“I’ve never been the one playing games.”

“No? Your career, then? That’s not a game to you?”

“Of fucking course not.” Potter looks at him, incredulous.

“You’re treating it awfully carelessly, then.” He continues on at Potter’s confused expression. “How do you think it would look, Potter? The Deputy Head Auror on his knees for the WWN’s top investigative journalist? Not much room for discretion between your mouth and Jordan’s cock.”

Potter pauses at that. “You’re joking.”

“Professional ethics?” Draco schools his features into the very picture of gravitas. “I would never joke about such a thing. Improper information sharing between a high-ranking Auror and the press…that’s no laughing matter. I’m sure the witches in Political Journalism would agree. Not to mention how poorly it would look for Jordan.”

Potter’s pause lingers until he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Irrelevant. It’s irrelevant. You can’t prove anything.”

“Can’t I? I’ve got dozens of memories that say otherwise, a very sophisticated verification team to prove it, an in-Pensieve camera in development, and a public that’s all too happy to believe what they want to believe.”

“A Pensieve? You—publicly?” Potter stares at him, speechless.

“A Pensive,” Draco affirms.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t? Replay filthy memories for the Wizengamot to avoid a libel suit?” He laughs. “Their reactions alone would make that worthwhile.”

“You wouldn’t,” Potter repeats.

“Try me.”

“I did.”

Silence hangs uncomfortably between them.

Potter repeats it. “I did. I tried. I asked. I fucking _begged_ and you wouldn’t say a word about us to your friends, let alone the fucking Wizengamot.”

“Perhaps these incentives are a bit more compelling.”

He may as well have slapped Potter in the face for the look that gets. He can feel Potter’s magic shrink away from him.

Draco turns to face the window. “If it’s even necessary. There must be dozens of men who can testify to the particulars of your technique.”

“You fucking arse.” Potter’s voice is cold and small.

“So you do remember.” Draco ignores the roiling in his stomach. “That was my preference far more than wanking.”

“You expect me to believe this? Any of this?”

“I wouldn’t advise testing me.”

There’s an explosion behind him. Draco turns just in time to freeze the pieces of his water glass mid-air. He levitates them to the bin with total focus. “Now, now, Potter. Such a lack of control hardly suits a Deputy Head. But then”—he dries the spilt water—“that’s rather how you wound up here in the first place, isn’t it?”

From the corner of his eye, Draco can see Potter’s chest rises and falls quickly, his fingers fisting and releasing, fisting and releasing. “You arse—”

“Yes, yes, I’m a very bad man. Not even points for originality.”

“You—You’re not, you know I don’t think—” Potter splutters. “You fucking, fucking—”

“Is that a request?”

Potter’s mouth snaps shut.

Draco summons a new water glass. “You’ll be the first to know if we decide to print. Depending on when your paper arrives, anyway.” He pauses, glass in hand, and finds that he’s suddenly very certain that he wants to continue on. “I’ll send an owl directly if there’s room for negotiation.”

“Negotiation?”

Draco gives him a tight smile. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”

Potter stares at him and doesn’t move to leave.

Draco casts an _Aguamenti_ and sits. He pulls an article off the top of a pile and makes as if to mark it up. He doesn’t look at Potter. He mostly doesn’t look at Potter’s upside-down reflection in his water glass. He remembers to move the quill across the parchment.

Long seconds pass. Finally, Potter turns and leaves the office. Draco tries not to notice that his fingers linger over the handle, as if, for a moment, he thought about turning back.

*    *    *

The moment the door clicks shut, Draco flips over the parchment and begins to write.

Possibilities  
\- Crime scene access  
\- Official crime scene photos  
\- Criminal profiles  
\- Interview access for new arrests  
\- Official crime reports  
\- Exclusive interview w/HP  
\- Exclusive photoshoot w/HP  
\- Sexual favours  
\- Personal connections  
\- Public appearances

He reads it, considers the options, and quickly crosses off those things that Potter won’t do, or that he could accomplish as easily through other means.

  
Possibilities  
~~\- Crime scene access~~  
~~\- Official crime scene photos~~  
~~\- Criminal profiles~~  
~~\- Interview access for new arrests~~  
~~\- Official crime reports~~  
~~\- Exclusive interview w/HP~~  
~~\- Exclusive photoshoot w/HP~~  
\- Sexual favours ( _??_ )  
\- Personal connections ( _Useful? Redundant? Only Weasleys?)  
_ \- Public appearances

He grabs another scrap of parchment and starts a new, much shorter list.

Amended Possibilities  
\- Sexual favours ( _??_ )  
\- Public appearances

One has more appeal. The other would do more lasting good. He considers how he would feel after each, and quickly decides that it’s an ill-advised line of inquiry. One item on the list has question marks next to it; he’ll go for the other.

He grabs one more fresh piece of parchment.

_Potter -  
My office. 6pm tomorrow. _


	2. Negotiation

Draco starts talking before a surprisingly punctual Potter has a chance to get a word in edgeways. He, frankly, doesn’t want to hear it. Instead, Draco shuts the door shut with a firm _Colloportus_ and opens with “What is the state of your formal wardrobe?”

Potter pauses, the hem of his uniform still settling from the impact of the door against the jamb. “Hello.”

“If you haven’t anything suitable I’ll send my tailor. Address?”

“Suitable for what, exactly?”

“The St. Mungo’s Benefactor’s Ball. You will escort me. You will be impeccably dressed and entirely charming. You will convince everyone in attendance that you are completely enamoured with me, while I convey relatively warm, if residually sceptical, feelings towards you.”

“Are you—” He looks flummoxed, then his voice softens inexplicably. “Draco, are you asking me on a date?”

“No.”

“You want to go to a ball with me.”

“You’ve already been invited. Penley in Fashion and Lifestyle has the guest list. Besides which—”

“You check to see if I’m on guest lists?”

Draco hesitates for the split second it takes him to articulate the thought. “It’s my business to know where public figures will be.”

“But you want us to go together.”

“In exchange for the positive publicity associated with attending a charity ball with you, we will refrain from printing your name in association with the photographs.”

“The positive publicity of—what?”

“You must be aware that there’s some cachet to be gained from being seen with you.”

“Yes, but since when are you aware of that?”

Draco folds his arms over his chest and meets Potter’s eye. “You’re being given an opportunity to save your job, Potter. Are you sure you want to ask questions?”

“Yes.”

Draco narrows his eyes.

Potter rolls his. “I’ll go. But Draco—”

“I don’t need to hear about your boyfriend’s objections.” Draco looks down to shuffle through his diary. “Shall I send Twilfit, or do you have something appropriate?”

“No, don’t send her.”

“Very well. Friday, shortly before 8. I’ll pick you up.”

“Draco.”

“Same address?”

“Draco?”

“I have Number 12 Grimmauld Place on the official file.”

“You don’t need to do it like this.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Draco insists, “beyond improving the reputation of this paper.”

“You’re still a terrible liar.”

Draco swallows against a rising tide of something that doesn’t strictly feel like his lunch. “Is that still your address?”

Potter hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”

“8 o’clock. Be ready.”

“To go to a ball with you. In public.”

“Yes.” He turns several more pages in his calendar, for the sake of it.

“And that’s all?”

He lifts a quill and adds Potter’s name to the event on his calendar. Best to stay organised. “Yes.”

“Fine.” Potter frowns. “Friday, then.”

And with a much gentler click than Draco had managed, Potter opens and closes the door, and is gone.

*    *    *

Draco does not hesitate before Apparating to Grimmauld Place. He does not pace in front of Number 12 before stepping through the wards. He does not hesitate on the landing before he knocks. He does not find himself at a bit of a loss for words when Potter opens the door. If his throat constricts, it’s just because it’s fucking freezing and really, someone as powerful as Potter ought to be able to spare a warming charm.

It’s not because Potter is standing in front of him, gorgeous and observant, in a set of robes that do incredible things for his body.

“Well,” Draco shivers. Clears his throat. Searches for the upper hand. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

Potter furrows his brow. “What is?”

“I’ve always wondered how you could’ve defeated a troll in first year. Now it’s abundantly clear.”

“What?”

“Try ‘pardon’ would you?” Draco scoffs. “Rudeness, Potter. The troll was so shocked by the extent of your rudeness, it fainted dead away from offence.”

Potter frowns.

“It’s hardly a far-fetched theory when a simple ‘would you care to come in’ is beyond you.”

“You insisted that we were just going to an event. Why would you need to come in?”

“Unless you’ve had an invisible Floo installed on your doorstep, I’d say it’s rather obvious.”

“So it’s a practical concern,” Potter replies, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He crosses his arms. “Your sense of what is or isn’t practical and beneficial has certainly changed.”

“So says the man who’s in his stocking feet five minutes before a charity ball.”

“My shoes are inside.”

“Will you be retrieving them while I turn into an icicle, or will you be inviting me in before I freeze to death?”

Potter raises an eyebrow. “You do realise the ‘freezing to death’ option would really simplify things for me?”

“Actually,” Draco replies with a thin smile, “I’ve left copies of the photographs in my desk with your name plastered across the back, so it would just add on a manslaughter charge. And a particularly sordid bit for the front page.” He pauses and folds his arms to suppress a shiver. “Come to think of it, how would you feel about killing someone else on staff? An intern, perhaps? Someone from the mail room?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Please. Rumours to the contrary, my heart wasn’t ice cold until about two minutes ago.”

“Draco,” Potter sighs. He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and steps aside without comment.

Draco doesn’t move. “Is that meant to be an invitation?”

Potter waves his hand vaguely and moves farther into the foyer.

“My, Potter. With manners like that, I’ll start to think you care.”

Potter’s back stiffens as he waves the door shut behind Draco and walks towards a parlour that is, to Draco’s surprise, decently decorated. Not _well_ decorated, perhaps, but not overtly shameful. It had been a dusty mess the last time he’d been here.

But then, it’s been a while.

Potter kneels to put on his shoes. Draco looks away. Even with his eyes stuck to a set of leather-bound book spines, he can’t help but remember the last time he’d seen Potter like that, one knee raised to steady himself. In the photograph. In his memory. The last time he’d seen it live and in person.

“All right?”

Draco shakes his head to clear it. When he turns around Potter’s still on one knee, looking up at him expectantly, and he almost chokes at the images that come to him, none of which he can afford to entertain. “What?”

Potter tilts his head. “Looked a bit lost in thought.”

“Just thinking. Preparing.” Draco clears his throat. “Speaking of which, you would do to remember that our agreement involves a certain amount of charm. You are meant to convince people that you like me, that you approve of my company and endeavours.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Potter stands, almost meeting Draco’s eye.

“No?” Draco arches a brow.

Potter doesn’t answer. He smiles tightly, grabs the Floo powder, throws it into the flames, announces the address, and disappears.

He’s waiting, one arm extended, to help Draco off the hearthstone on the other side.

Potter’s usually casual demeanour has been wholly replaced. He’s straightened his posture to match Draco’s. He looks taller, chest broad and waist trim, his shoulders solid and straight. Draco is too surprised to object when he offers an elbow.

Potter leads the way to the top of the staircase. It’s a short walk, really. Draco’s not sure why it feels so long. He’s done this sort of thing at a million events. Never with Potter, true—not even when Potter had asked, not even when part of Draco had wanted to give the request some consideration—but he’s done it before. And his father had been right at the time, that Draco’s parents were more experienced image-makers and that he ought to let them choose who he escorted, and the paper is stronger for it now. It was right, to avoid being seen with someone clumsy and impolitic, no matter his status. It was right to never really entertain the thought of how this would feel, Potter’s arm warm against his own as they move towards the grand stairway.

Potter squeezes his arm and pulls a card with their two names from his pocket. He hands it to the herald and assumes his place at the landing as though this is second nature to him.

Draco chances a sideways look at him and is shocked to be met with a perfect imitation of genuine warmth. Fondness, even. He is shocked, too, at the Doxies in his stomach. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this, this lightness, this dizziness, the sense that time is all out of order. He focuses on hanging on to his supper.

The herald clears his throat and cast a _Sonorous_. “Misters Harry James Potter,” the herald looks down at the card, frowns, and adds of his own accord, “Order of Merlin, First Class and,” the herald pauses again, his frown deepening, “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco is sure he’s not imagining the rustling of silk and taffeta or the heat of a hundred sets of scrutinising eyes when they start down the staircase together. It’s what he’d been trying to avoid in the first place, what his parents had been trying to avoid for him with all their attempts at sensible matchmaking, and he can understand why now. He isn’t sure the good press is worth it, or that it will be good press if he vomits all over the Chosen One.

His queasiness only increases when Potter leans in, his breath raising goosebumps along Draco’s neck. “Imagine I’m saying something charming.” He smiles, marking the last word with the beginning of a laugh.

“That may be a bridge too far.” It’s wry, but Draco does manage a smile.

“Even in your natural habitat?” Potter retorts with an easy smile.

Draco’s not biting, though he matches the appearance of Potter’s smile. “You just had to include the ‘Lucius,’ didn't you? Wouldn’t want anyone to forget that, would we?”

“Of course not,” Potter smiles at him. His jaw only looks the least bit clenched, which is more than Draco can say. Though it’s probably just because the rest of Potter’s face is too busy looking unbearably self-satisfied. “You’ve always been perfectly clear on the importance of your family.”

“You—” Draco has the difficult task of stopping a huff already in progress as he realises they’re coming within range of attentive ears. “Of course,” he finishes smoothly, plastering a smile over the distinct urge to throttle Potter, room full of Aurors be damned. “How very thoughtful of you.”

“Of course.” Potter steps away and drops Draco’s arm as they step off the staircase. “It’s the least I could do,” he raises his voice ever so slightly, “for someone I care about.”

“Of course,” Draco replies, infusing his voice with the sort of false warmth best mastered at the skirts of Narcissa Malfoy. He steps forward and raises a hand to cup Potter’s cheek. “Your kindness is legendary for good reason.”

Potter’s smile flickers.

Draco runs a hand over Potter’s shoulder and down his arm, to twine their fingers together. “The least I can do is thank you with a drink. And I see Robards is already at the bar. After all the wonderful things you’ve said, I’m simply dying to make his acquaintance.” He turns faux-pleading eyes on Potter. “Does your kindness extend to making introductions?”

“Of course.” Potter’s smile shows just a hint of strain. “It would be my pleasure.”

Draco thinks he may, somehow, have got Potter on the defensive, and a defensive Potter is a predictable Potter, which might make the night redeemable. Even if Potter holds on to his arm with the kind of death grip that would leave most men wincing. After living with the Dark Wanker it takes far more than a rough hand—it is, in point of fact, a near-impossible task—to disturb Draco’s façade. It’s always driven Potter spare, that.

Potter, it seems, is—has become—similarly unflappable. He introduces Draco to Robards, and Proudfoot, and Dawlish. He charms Hortense Birchgrove so thoroughly her dentures start to slip from over-smiling, with just a few, admittedly fond, reminiscences about her Auror trainee great-grandson. He brings Draco Champagne when his flute runs empty, touches his shoulder when he laughs politely, doesn’t even bristle when Draco slides an arm around his waist.

It is, Draco will concede, an impressive performance. Convincing. So engaging that people have begun to leave before he even realises the night is drawing to a close, and it will hardly be a complete mission if no one is left to see them leave together.

Draco tightens his grip on Potter’s waist, pulling his attention away from the Junior Undersecretary to Something Dull and Vaguely Important, whose name semi-intentionally escapes Draco. “It’s getting rather late, isn’t it?”

Before Potter can respond, the Junior Undersecretary looks to his pocket watch and gasps. “Oh, goodness! We’ve got a babysitter to relieve. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Likewise.”

“Harry, as always.”

“Of course. See you Tuesday?”

The Junior Undersecretary nods and makes a beeline for the staircase. Potter steps out of Draco’s grip and crosses his arms, looking far more confrontational than the situation calls for. “Didn’t know you were in such a rush to leave.”

“Yes, well, it’s poor manners to dawdle.”

“Or you’re that eager to be done with me. Again.”

“Manners,” Draco hisses through a grin.

“Of course.” Potter plasters on a smile that looks more psychotic than pleased. “How could I forget?”

“For Merlin’s sake.” Draco hooks his elbow around Potter’s and starts pulling him towards the Floos. “Best to end things before they get out of hand now, isn’t it?”

“Some things never change, do they?”

Draco tightens his grip, steering Potter towards the staircase.

“Stop it,” Potter insists, trying to pull his arm free.

Draco isn’t having it, but he’s not having a scene, either. When Potter pulls at him again, he uses it to propel them past the foot of the staircase and into an unused cloakroom tucked underneath it. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing, Potter?”

Potter’s wand is drawn in an instant and Draco pulls his own instinctively before he hears Potter cast a _Muffliato_. “What am I doing? What the fuck do you think _you’re_ doing?”

“We had a deal.”

“A deal.” Potter laughs, re-holstering his wand. “A deal. Great.”

“You agreed to it.” Draco doesn’t drop his wand.

“Yes,” Potter agrees. “You had all the photographs, an _Accio_ away, and I agreed to it. What does that tell you?”

“You know there are copies.”

“You would never make copies. Risk someone else getting their hands on your exclusive?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“You utter arsehole.” Potter half-laughs. “I know everything about you.”

“You do not.”

Potter steps forward and grips Draco’s wrist. “I know you wank with your wand hand.”

“Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re an ambidextrous freak of nature.”

“Or I like to pretend it’s you touching me.”

Draco’s stomach drops. “Your delusions are your own business.”

“I know that you don’t really want to curse me.”

“You’re entirely wrong about that.” He tries for outrage. The result is disappointingly shaky.

“I know that there are a million other more useful things you could’ve tried to get out of me. Crime scene access. Exclusive interviews.”

“Don’t think I didn’t consider it.”

Potter steps forward again, pinning Draco’s wand hand to his chest. “I don’t. I think you considered all of it. So what does it say that you settled on this?”

“That I already have informants in your department.”

“Who, Birchgrove junior? He hardly knows how to spell his own name.”

“He knows how to _Geminio_ reports well enough.”

Potter laughs once, short and sharp, and Draco feels it resonate through him. “I know you well enough to know that you’re not satisfied with that.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Easily satisfied? No, you’re not.”

“You have no idea what it takes to satisfy me any more. No idea what—”

And then he gasps, because Potter is pressing his thigh into Draco’s groin, and it’s just the right amount of pressure, and the way Potter rolls his hips is somewhere between distracting and criminal, and Potter’s mouth is next to his ear, his breath hot against Draco’s skin, and he’s whispering, “I have every idea. I know you, Draco Malfoy.”

He pins Draco’s wrist to the wall with such force that Draco’s wand slips from his fingers. “I know what you like.” He dips his head and nips at the spot under Draco’s jawline that’s always made him shudder, that no one’s thought to touch in years. “I know what you want.”

Draco does shudder, and he moans. He can’t help it, not even if he hates himself for it, instantly and vehemently. It doesn’t stop him from tilting his head to give Potter better access, nor does it stop him from grabbing for Potter’s arse.

But Potter has other ideas. Draco’s other wrist is pinned to the wall at his side, and there are no words for how much Draco doesn’t want to be achingly hard under Harry Potter’s touch, in a cloakroom with much of society’s elite milling about outside, without his wand or, apparently, his sanity.

Then Potter whispers in his ear again, and he forgets all about it. “I know how to satisfy you.”

Draco swallows.

“I always have, remember?” Potter releases his wrists.

Somewhere, in the back of his brain, Draco knows he should go for his wand. Or leave. Or turn Potter around and remind him of what it feels like to be pinned against a wall.

Then Potter’s hands are at his robes, unhooking the clasps, and he forgets all of that completely.

Potter slips his hand under the fabric and finds the outline of his nipple through his shirt, and pinches it until Draco lets out a whine. “I know how you like to be touched.”

He rolls his hips against Draco’s. “I can feel you getting hard, Draco.”

Draco goes to shake his head, but as soon as he turns it to one side Potter’s teeth are at his throat again and he won’t do anything to turn him away. Potter’s right. He’s getting hard. He likes being touched this way. No one else has managed it, not like this, not since—

Potter sinks to his knees, and Draco presses his lips together. He won’t moan again. He won’t.

He won’t buck his hips, either. Or, he doesn’t plan to, but when Potter runs his nails down Draco’s front, he can’t quite help it. Even through the fabric of his shirt, he can feel the warmth of Potter’s fingertips. Potter pulls open his belt buckle and unzips his flies. Draco closes his eyes tight.

His hips may be a lost cause, but he won’t moan and he won’t look. Not even when Potter grabs his waistband and crouches to pull his trousers and pants down in one go. Not even when Potter’s hand travels up the outside of his thigh and he remembers the magical—better than magical—feeling of their skin pressed together. Keeps his eyes shut tight even when Potter whispers something into his hip, and when he kisses the hint of hipbone that’s been hiding under Draco’s shirt tails until Potter pulls them aside.

He almost wavers when Potter wraps his fingers around Draco’s shaft. He wants to see. Merlin, he wants to see. Wants one more memory for the Pensieve, even if it’s better live, with the feeling of Harry’s calloused fingertips running over him, the particular pressure that only Harry manages perfectly every time.

But that’s why he won’t look, too. With his eyes closed, it could be a skilled stranger. With his eyes closed, it’s nothing to worry about.

Harry licks the tip, and Draco’s eyelids strain. He takes deep breaths. He counts backwards from 20.

He’s at 12 when he hears his name. The voice is so familiar. It’s reflex. He looks.

Harry’s flushed. His lips are full and open and not more than tongue's length from the head of Draco’s cock. He’s half-smiling up at Draco, but it’s more than a smile. It’s knowing and ravenous and it only disappears when he speaks. “Draco,” he repeats, making sure to lock eyes with Draco. “You know I know what you want, don’t you?”

Draco does not nod, even though yes, he knows. More than knows. He holds his breath instead, hating the way his chest hitches.

“You know I can give it to you.”

Merlin, _this_. He hasn’t forgotten about Harry’s filthy mouth, but he has tried very hard not to think about it either. Didn’t think he’d hear it again.

“And you sound so good when I do.”

He wonders how many other men Harry’s reduced to incoherence. How many men he’s got down on his knees for. Made moan. It’s almost enough to stop Draco. To make him pull Harry to his stupid feet and kick him right back out into the ballroom.

“Tell me, Draco.”

He shakes his head.

Potter kisses the tip of his cock, comes away with one shining bead on his lower lip. He locks eyes with Draco before he licks it off.

“Do you not want it, then?”

_Fuck_. Fuck. Potter means it, he always means it. Without a response, he’ll stop, and that’s the worst idea Draco’s heard in as long as he can remember. He runs a newspaper, he goes to pitch meetings, and this is still the worst, the most untenable, thing he’s heard in an age.

“I’ll stop if you don’t want it, you know.”

Potter’s always kept his promises, from, “I’ll suck you till your knees buckle,” to, “If that’s really what you want, you won’t hear from me again.” Draco’s hated him for it before. He hates him for it now.

He strokes Draco’s cock, moves away just far enough to kiss Draco’s hipbone again, to suck the flesh there into his mouth hard enough to maybe leave a bruise. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” Draco gasps. “No.”

“Look at me, then.” Potter stares up at him, searching.

“Look,” Draco repeats, gasping. And he is looking, and trying to breathe. “Looking.”

“Good,” Harry replies. “Watch.”

He smiles again, then slips his lips around the head of Draco’s cock, which is almost as red as Harry’s lips.

And _fuck_ , but it’s good. His mouth is so warm, it’s so tight, and the way he hollows out his cheeks to suck Draco down makes him want to moan. He can feel the sound forming in his chest, knows Harry wants it, how much Harry always wants it, and when Harry’s hand trails up his leg to cup his bollocks, it’s almost too much. He exhales, something guttural and animal that still manages to sound like Harry’s name, and the only thing wrong with this sound is that it makes Harry pull off. He smiles up at Draco and, with just a hint of hoarseness, asks, “More?”

“More,” Draco repeats. “Yeah, more.”

Harry nods, and takes him back down

“More,” Draco exhales, and threads his fingers through Harry’s hair. He tugs—because he knows Harry too, knows Harry so well—and tries not to buck into Harry’s throat when he feels the moan vibrate around his cock.

“Fuck, Harry, more.”

The next moan is bigger, deeper. It comes from Harry’s chest and goes straight down Draco’s cock, into his bones. And then Harry’s murmuring around his shaft, repeating, “More, more.” He raises one knee and his hand goes from Draco’s bollocks to the wall, and Draco knows what comes next and fuck, is he ready.

He relaxes his hips, pulls back as far as he can against the wall, and slams forward into Harry’s waiting mouth. Harry moans around him. Draco does it again, and again, and Harry’s humming around him and brings his free hand to Draco’s hip to urge him to go faster, harder. Which Draco does, through a stream of exhortations he’s not even fully conscious of, requests for, “More,” and, “Deeper,” and, “Take it, fuck, take it just like that,” and praise for being, “So good,” “So hot,” “Best fucking cocksucker in the world, the way you fucking take it.”

And Harry opens his throat and takes it, and Draco is still obeying, still watching, and he sees it as much as he feels it when Harry’s hand drops away. Harry stuffs it into his robes and starts rubbing at himself through his trousers, bucking his hips in time with Draco’s thrusts.

Draco knows if it’s come to this it won’t be long and fuck, he’s ready, so ready. “I’m gonna come,” he warns, and Harry nods and hums and kneads the bulge of his cock under his palm. Draco threads both hands through the wild mess of Harry’s hair to hold him still, and Harry moans at the feeling, and Draco’s bollocks are so tight they ache. He can feel sparks of pleasure moving up through his thighs and he digs into Harry’s scalp and comes with a shout.

Harry's promises keep even after almost a decade; Draco’s knees buckle. He gives into it, slides down the wall, finds himself face to face with Harry, whose eyelids flutter as he palms himself a few more times and gives in too, coming in his trousers with a guttural, desperate sound and collapsing forward, his head resting on Draco’s knees.

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs. He lifts one limp arm to throw it around Draco’s thigh.

“Mmm,” Draco agrees. He leans his head back against the wall and cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, trying to return it to some semblance of order.

Harry laughs, low and sweet. “Fuck,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees. He closes his eyes and tries to commit it all to memory. The softness of Harry’s hair, the filthy, beautiful curve of his lips wrapped around Draco’s cock. These things he never thought he’d see again. Hear again. The way Harry moans, the way he takes Draco with him past anything Draco would dare try with anyone else. The way he knows exactly where, exactly how, to touch. That moment when he smiles and hums and braces one arm and lifts one knee just like Draco remembered, just like he’d seen in the photos.

Something cold pierces his post-coital lassitude.

The photos. The photos, which feature Potter doing this exact same thing with someone else. With Lee Jordan, whom Potter has been so eager to protect.

He stands abruptly. Potter scrambles for balance. “Hmm?” He looks up, confused.

Draco yanks up his pants and trousers, tucks his cock and shirt tails both back into place. “Well done, then.”

“Huh?”

“Well done, you.”

“Thanks?” Potter’s still glazed over. Draco resists the urge to kick him.

“And what will you be wanting for that?”

“Um?”

“Out with it.”

“What?”

Draco snorts. “Was this your idea, or your boyfriend’s?”

“My—?” Potter straightens, alert and looking a bit alarmed. “My what? What are you talking about?”

“Jordan,” Draco spits. “Was this your grand idea, or his?” He laughs, low and harsh. “Or have you become a cheater?”

“What? Lee? No, he—”

“Your idea, then? I’ll hand it to you, Potter, didn’t see that one coming.”

“Draco, no. You’ve got it all wrong.” Potter stands too, straightening his robes so that they cover the stiff spot on his trousers.

“Have I? What then, just a little nostalgic face-fucking? Bit of a suck down memory lane?”

“You’re the one who asked me out!” Potter’s voice is strangely frantic.

“I made you an offer. Did you a favour,” Draco bites.

“You’re the only reason I needed a favour in the first place!”

“I wasn’t the one who decided to suck my boyfriend off behind a club.”

“No, you’re just the one who decided I couldn’t have what I actually wanted.”

Draco struggles with the top clasp of his robes. He’s not sure why it won’t close, but he’ll be having a word with Twilfit.

“We couldn’t be seen together,” Potter rambles on, “the damage to your family would be too great, the public accusations, it would be best for me not to get in touch, all the best for my future endeavours.”

The clasp is getting a bit maddening. He turns his back to Potter and squints down to figure out why it won’t catch.

“I sent you an owl every day for a month. Thirty owls, Draco.” Potter is right behind him now. “And not a word. Not a scrap of parchment. Not a scrap of fucking _hope_. Draco, look at me.”

Draco doesn’t.

Potter steps in front of him. “Nothing to go on, except for being fucking tailed at every public event from the minute you took over the paper. Your father goes off to France and all of a sudden, every trip I make to Diagon Alley is front page news, the _Prophet_ ’s printing my receipts from Honeydukes. You think I didn’t notice that?”

Draco manages to shove the clasp through the hook. “You’re good for sales.”

He can hear the beginnings of half-formed sputterings trying to escape Potter’s mouth, but nothing coherent makes it through save one squeaky word. “Sales?”

“Yes, sales. It’s a business, Potter. You’re good for business.”

“Sales.” The word is coherent, even if the voice that carries it sounds more dead than alive.

“Sales,” Draco affirms.

“Why don’t the others do it, then? The WWN doesn’t report on my choice of starters. The _Quibbler_ ’s never run ‘Harry Potter’s Pants: A Saviour’s Most Intimate Choices.’ Only the _Prophet_. Only your paper. And why is that, Draco? Why?”

Draco turns on him then, arms folded, eyes filled with as much cold fury as he can muster. “Maybe it’s because you’re fucking their staff.”

“I was fucking your staff first!”

“You admit it, then.”

“You have the fucking photographs, Draco. There’s not much point in a denial.”

“No,” Draco agrees, narrowing his eyes. “There isn’t.”

“Don’t you dare, Draco Malfoy. Don’t you fucking dare. I wanted you. Thirty owls worth of wanted you. A year of waiting before I so much as looked at another bloke wanted you. Bizarre appreciation for the most intrusive staff of photographers imaginable wanted you. Let you appear out of nowhere and blackmail me into a date wanted you. _Want_ you. And you dare, you fucking dare, suggest that I was in the wrong for not remaining totally celibate in the fucking decade you’ve spent ignoring me?”

“I’ve never said any such thing.”

“No.” Potter throws his hands up. “Of course not. I get it. You don’t care. You don’t give a Skrewt’s arse what I do. I can fuck anyone at all. I could go fuck Lee Jordan and Luna Lovegood at the same time for all you care, as long as your paper gets the exclusive. Look me in the eye, Draco, and tell me that’s true.”

There’s a noise behind Draco. He turns around to see what it is. The few coat hangers left in the room have started rattling.

“You can’t, can you?”

There are seven wooden ones and three of those awful Muggle wire ones that are hell on good cloaks.

“Can’t look at me at all.” Potter’s come to stand right behind Draco, now, so close Draco can feel the heat of him. “Can you?”

They do odd things to the shoulders, the wire ones. Or the robes fall off altogether and everything gets terribly creased.

“Fuck, Draco. All of this, I thought maybe, after all this waiting...but no.” Potter laughs again, and this time it’s a cracked, half-empty sort of a sound. “You still can’t.” He sighs. “Maybe you never will.”

One of the best pieces of advice Twilfit ever gave, avoiding the wire hangers, even once the magical speciality cleaners started using them. They don’t have any at the Manor. Never have, save the ones Potter left behind.

Potter’s hollow laugh returns. “But you still know it, don’t you?”

He takes Draco by the shoulders and turns him around so suddenly that Draco can’t stop it before it’s done, before he’s facing Harry straight on, just far enough apart that the few inches difference in their height can’t save him from catching the full force of Harry’s gaze.

“You still know that this,” he puts his hand on Draco’s chest, “is as good as it gets.” He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t hesitate. “Took me a dozen men to be sure of it. That no one would fuck me like you do. That no one could.”

He takes half a step back, fingers still spread over Draco’s robes. “No one tastes as sweet as you do, all that fucking fruit for breakfast. No one’s as sharp, and did you know, it’s less fun fucking the boring nice ones?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I bet you do. Bet you know it just as well as I do.”

Draco does, but he’s not saying it. Couldn’t say it—or anything else—even if he wanted to.

“No one’s skin feels like magic. No one makes me come untouched and leaves me laughing afterwards. No one has what we have,” Potter drops his hand. “And you bloody well know it. You fucking coward.”

Draco hasn’t managed to say anything by the time Potter steps away, shakes his head one last time, and leaves the room. He doesn’t manage to say anything for several minutes after. He knows there are ten hangers, and he’s half hard again already, and Potter still smells like the same soap and has the filthiest mouth this side of the Leaky. And, he finds, he knows very little else. Or if he does, he’s not admitting it.


	3. Consideration

“Pansy?”

“You’ve already got the strawberries.”

“No, no.” Draco folds down the top half of the paper.

“He emerges,” Blaise intones, passing Pansy a pitcher of mimosas.

“Hilarious,” Draco retorts. “I thanked you for the berries five minutes ago.”

“Did you? “ Pansy smiles sweetly. “Must’ve forgotten amidst all the terrible hosting.”

“I don’t know what you expect when you show up uninvited.”

“Human contact? Pulp free mimosas?”

“I like the pulp. The other bit, well.”

“Yes, but we’re your guests.”

“Uninvited.”

“Details.”

“Yes, well, you’re getting human contact now, aren’t you?”

“Hmm,” Pansy muses. “Does it count if you’re still half-hiding behind that rag?”

Draco issues an exaggerated sigh and sets the morning _Quibbler_ down on top of the _Prophet_. “Better?”

“Positively delightful. Did you want the cream, then?” She raises the saucer and an eyebrow.

“Hilarious. No idea why I’d choose to read the paper when this is the level of humour awaiting me.”

“You wound me. Blaise, darling, how shall I ever recover?”

“As you usually do. Shoes and fucking.”

Pansy sets her chin in her palm. “Yes, but in which order?”

Blaise shoots her a grin. “Do I get to vote?”

“Enough,” Draco interrupts. “I’d like to keep down my breakfast, thanks.”

“Blaise, do you remember when Draco was fun?”

“Fun? Vaguely. Are we counting the times he was a complete tit but we loved him anyway?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I was trying to ask a question, if you’ll recall.” He continues on before Pansy can open her mouth entirely. “Not about breakfast foods or shoes.”

She pouts. “Fine then. What’s so important?”

“Pansy, how many men did you sleep with between Blaise the first time and Blaise the second time?”

“None.” She smiles. “The first and second times were directly concurrent.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. The first set of times and the most recent set of times.”

“Just between, or are we including the ones after?” She and Blaise share a smile that almost does put Draco off his breakfast.

“Between, thanks.”

“Just men?”

“People. How many people.”

“Twenty-two.” How she manages to say it primly, Draco doesn’t know, except that she’s Pansy and 98% immune to shame.

“In, was it, five years?”

“And a half,” Blaise interjects, reaching for _Witch Weekly_ and handing it to Pansy. “She kept me waiting.”

“And you, Blaise? How many was it?”

“Men?”

“People.”

“Good man. Important to be inclusive.”

“A principle you both uphold admirably.”

Draco sees Pansy wink at Blaise over the top of _Witch Weekly_.

Blaise returns it. “We try.”

“So, how many?”

“Fourteen.”

“Only?” Draco asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

“None the first six months or the last six months. She was a tough act to follow, our Pans.” Blaise smiles at her fondly, though she’s now lost in the magazine. “And once I was determined to have her back, no one else would do.”

“And it doesn’t bother you? The number of people?”

Blaise laughs. “With memories like hers and a Pensieve in the bedroom?”

Draco tilts his head to concede the point. “Fair. Then how did you know it was Pansy?”

Blaise’s smile is broad and genuine. “Who else could compare? You just know.”

Pansy momentarily lowers the magazine to blow him a kiss.

“You just know? That’s thoroughly meaningless.”

Blaise shrugs. “Why the sudden interest? You won’t usually talk fucking until tea.”

“Just a matter of personal interest.”

Blaise raises an eyebrow. “How personal?”

Before he can answer, Pansy interrupts behind the copy of _Witch Weekly_ , without any trace of her previous levity. “Very.”

Draco’s stomach turns.

“Very?” Blaise asks. “How very?”

Pansy folds the page over and passes it to him. Her eyes never leave Draco, and he barely resists the urge to squirm.

A long moment’s silence is broken by Blaise’s whistle. Draco cringes when he starts to read aloud:

> _"Former rivals Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy raised donations and eyebrows alike at the St. Mungo’s Benefactor’s Ball. Potter turned heads in plum robes of unknown provenance, while Malfoy, who has a longtime tailor in Esmerelda Twilfit, wowed in traditionally cut midnight blue. But the night’s biggest surprise—barely edging out their affectionate arrival—was the duo’s disappearance towards evening’s end. Upon emerging—a bit worse for wear, in the opinion of this humble reporter—from an abandoned cloakroom Potter refused a statement and was quick to make his escape. Were these two raising something other than funds for a worthy cause?_ ”"

Blaise pauses and sets down the paper. “Well.”

Pansy frowns and crosses her arms.

Draco cringes. If Pansy is 98% shame-proof, all things Potter are the other 2%. Which will rather predispose Blaise to a certain stance on the matter, too.

“Well,” Blaise repeats. “Were you?”

“Raising funds? Yes. Paid for a table, gave the tickets to staff, avoided them all night. You know how these things are.”

“Draco.” Pansy’s voice is soft, which is far worse than anger would’ve been. “Did you?”

“It was publicity. I had some photos that he didn’t want to see printed. We came to an agreement.”

Blaise and Pansy exchange sceptical looks. Not that Draco thought they would buy it, but he had rather hoped.

Blaise breaks the silence first. “You blackmailed Potter into going on a date with you?”

“For publicity, yes.”

“You were given the material to blackmail Harry Potter and you took that opportunity to get a date?”

“Yes. For the publicity.”

“You own a newspaper. You own publicity.”

“Goodwill, then. Not the same thing.”

“And did his goodwill extend to the cloakroom, or was that also down to blackmail?”

“Fuck off.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it, and while the absence of a good filter is always a mistake around Slytherins, if there was ever a situation to think first, this would be it. Not because they’ll be offended, but because he’s never, in all the years of nosey questions about who he’s fucked, been genuinely rude about a single one of them. And they’ve clearly noticed the difference.

“Fuck.” Pansy leans back, shocked.

“Seconded,” Blaise adds. “Not the blackmail, then. Did you seduce him? Or—”

“No.” Pansy’s worked it out before Draco can think of a way to spin it. “The questions. His questions, Blaise. ‘How many people between?’ ‘Did you mind?’ It’s happened before.”

Blaise goes wide-eyed. “It’s happened before?”

“I—”

“And ‘How do you know? How do you know who’s the one?’” She turns to Draco, looking shocked. His stomach drops. From the look of her, Pansy’s has too. “You like him.”

“No!”

“You do. Don’t lie to me, Draco. Not about this.”

“I—”

“Really, Draco.” Blaise is casting worried looks at Pansy. “Out with it.”

“No, I. It just—yes, it happened before. Ages ago. Right after…everything.”

They’re both speechless. Pansy is staring into her tea, stirring it without having added anything.

Draco has little choice but to continue on. “It was nothing. Couldn’t go anywhere. Ended it and never looked back, but, well,” he swallows, “he’s a damn fine cocksucker, all right?”

Pansy’s spoon clicks against the china as she stirs. Her brow is furrowed. Blaise’s attention is entirely on her, and he looks as worried as Draco feels when she finally looks up.

“Bullshit.” She sets her spoon in the saucer.

“He is, Pans. You understand how that goes. Or close enough.”

“Bullshit, Draco. Finch-Fletchley’s a great cocksucker.”

Draco furrows his brow. “So?”

“She’s right,” Blaise adds, unhelpfully.

“Finch-Fletchley’s a great cocksucker, decently intelligent, not bad to look at, reasonably well-positioned, and he was after you for years. Years when you would’ve done well to be seen with someone who hadn’t been a Death Eater. And a Muggleborn, at that. Always wondered why you wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

“I was busy.”

“Pining for Harry Potter?”

“Running a newspaper.”

“A newspaper that has the most thorough Harry Potter coverage of any wizarding periodical?”

“It’s good money.”

“You’re a superb liar, Draco, but not to us.”

Blaise nods in agreement. “True.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are.”

“If you think so, you’re not listening, Pansy. Things with Potter wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. That’s as true now as it was then, and it’s pure madness to think otherwise. Focusing on the paper instead of obliging Finch-Fletchley is hardly evidence to the contrary.”

She gives him a measured look. “And that’s why you blackmailed him into sucking your cock in a public cloakroom?” She leans forward. “That’s why, given an opportunity to blackmail the Boy Who Lived and next Head Auror, you asked for a date? Because it’s madness that could never work?”

“Pansy.”

“Don’t ‘Pansy’ me, Draco. I’m not stupid. You might be, but I’m not.”

“Pansy,” he tries again, softer this time.

“Don’t try to placate me, either. You’re being an idiot.”

He looks to Blaise for help.

Blaise shrugs and extends his hand. “She’s usually right.”

Pansy reaches across the table to take it. “I am. And you’re an idiot.”

Draco frowns.

“You blackmailed the Deputy Head Auror and he went along with it. What does that tell you?”

“That it was good blackmail material.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Yes, because as _Deputy Head Auror_ he’s probably incompetent with a surveillance spell and would have no way to say, send a team to retrieve the photos or, you know, bring you up on criminal charges for attempted blackmail.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” It’s automatic. Draco cringes.

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“Exactly. He wouldn’t do that. Draco, if he didn’t like your terms, he would’ve had you arrested. If he went on a date with you, it’s because he wanted to.”

He pauses. “That doesn’t mean anything. Certainly doesn’t make it any more possible now than it was then.”

“Draco. Darling. It’s been ten years. Maybe it does.”

Draco knows it doesn’t. It couldn’t. He’s still himself, Potter’s still Potter, and they’ve got ten years of antipathy to add to the already-long list of reasons why it can’t work. For Pansy to even suggest otherwise is insanity. She may be able to read a calendar, but that’s hardly an argument.

He looks to Blaise for backup, but he’s only got eyes for Pansy. Draco sees him squeeze her hand and tries not to feel the pang that’s settling in his stomach at the sight of them, his two best friends, madly in love. Though whether this ache is for Potter or his friends, he’s not sure. The chances he could keep all of them have always been infinitesimal, and it’s no small part of the reason why this madness with Potter has been a non-starter. Still is a non-starter.

Draco turns his appeal back to Pansy. “You, of all people, know that these things aren’t easily forgotten. It’s not as easy as just moving on.”

“The passage of time is not the same thing as ‘just moving on.’ And if anyone owes Potter a chance at happiness, it’s me.” She pats Blaise’s hand and lets it drop. “If that means telling you that you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, are being a idiot, we can just call that a personal bonus.”

*    *    *

By the time Draco reaches the office, it’s clear that _Witch Weekly_ ’s news has preceded him. On the one hand, he’s pleased that his staff are keeping track of their competitors. And that they had the good sense not to run anything about it without consulting him. On the other, he has no idea how they ever manage to dig up anything worthwhile when their whispering and staring is about as subtle as an Erumpent. And he would like to throttle each and every one of them.

He seals himself in his office, dims the lights, summons the Scotch, and pours two fingers. It’s five o’clock somewhere. Bangkok, he thinks. And isn’t he overdue for a vacation?

Maybe that’s the best solution. Leave the country. Leave Pansy’s well-meaning but entirely outlandish speculation and Potter’s protestations and retire to a beach somewhere. Draco doesn’t speak a word of Thai and is still certain that it would make more sense than the apparently serious, and totally baseless, suggestion that he and Potter could ever be anything more than tipsy decennial cocksucking.

The whispering of his staff resumes on the other side of Draco’s door and grows louder as he sips. He thinks he hears the start of a scuffle. Past drawing straws then, are they?

When it comes, the knock is distinctively timid. He sips and stares at the door until it comes again, louder.

“Come in, Higsbee.” The door cracks open. “And have some spine, would you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll work on that, sir.”

“Very well then.”

Higsbee shuts the door behind him and turns around with hunched shoulders. “Er.”

Draco’s eyelids flutter shut and he takes a deep breath. “Yes?”

“Sir, um.”

He turns his chair away from Higsbee. “Out with it.”

“You see, sir, _Witch Weekly_ came out this morning and they’re running an exclusive, in the gossip section. Well, not exactly an exclusive, you see, we had the story too, but given its nature–”

Draco turns around, alarmed. “How many people have the bloody story?”

“Er,” Higsbee flushes. “Just us and them, sir. We think. No one else has run it, and they would have. But we need to know, er, if we should, and, well, the writers in Fashion and Lifestyle would like to know if there are, er, if they could, perhaps, run a more complete story than _Witch Weekly_ ’s, for the sake of circulation, you see, if they might be able to provide readers with a few more pertinent details, or perhaps a confir—”

“Absolutely not,” Draco interrupts. He’s often furious with his staff, but the impertinence of this particular request is on another, blood-rushing, pulse-pounding level still. “Out of the question.”

“Sir, this is shaping up to be _Witch Weekly_ ’s highest circulation week this year. They’ve already gone into a second printing.”

Fuck. Of course it is. He’s always known it would be a circus if this kind of word got out. Draco attempts a deep, calming breath and tries to think over the sounds of Higsbee’s hand-wringing. He needs to find a way to deflect the attention. To put an end to all of this.

He turns to face Higsbee as soon as he’s got something. “So it’s strictly a circulation issue, then? Not a matter of those gossipy bastards trying to stick their noses where they oughtn’t be?”

“Sir, setting aside that you had ‘stick your noses where they oughtn’t be’ _Incendio_ ’d into their cubicle walls, no, I don’t believe so.”

“Then,” Draco quirks an eyebrow at Higsbee and reaches for a stack of parchment, “they’d be just as happy with something else, wouldn’t they?”

“Another story?” Higsbee looks confused. “I suppose so, but could it compete?”

Draco grabs a quill. “More than.”

He stops to consider the wording. He’s got to really sell this in order to do away with the idea of him and Potter. To regain a little peace and order in his life. He starts a draft, crosses it out, starts again, sends it to the bin, starts again. He’s vaguely aware that Higsbee’s doing an uncharacteristically good job of staying still.

Higsbee doesn’t step forward until Draco hands him the parchment. Then his eyebrows move faster than his feet ever have. “Sir? Is this true? Are you certain? This could be quite a risky—”

“It’s a blind item, Higsbee. Can’t be sued over those, we haven’t accused anyone of anything.” He holds up a hand when Higsbee moves to interrupt. “And yes, I’m sure. Though if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll see it printed in your blood.”

“Er, yes sir.” Higsbee doesn’t leave. “But they’ll want to know, down in F and L, where it came from.”

“Let them wonder,” Draco replies. “Tell them it’s a mandate from on high and I want it in the early edition.”

Higsbee pauses, clearly uneasy.

“Good day, Higsbee.”

Draco summons the Scotch before the lock has finished clicking into place.

*    *    *

Tawny owls are England’s most common. They are, therefore, a popular choice among those who lack imagination, those who have every desire to blend in among the masses, and those who send communiqués to wizards living in the Muggle world with any regularity. Potter fits into all three categories, but tawnies are so damn common nowadays that Draco doesn’t think anything of the bird perched on the ledge of his office. Just opens the window to shoo it towards the mail room.

At which point it takes a good chunk out of his finger, and sticks out its leg.

“Bloody bird.” Draco grabs it round the middle and yanks it inside, wrestling with surprisingly strong wings in the process.

The owl is clearly furious. It can’t seem to decide whether to try for another finger-snack or stick out its leg, so Draco summons the parchment tied to its ankle.

His stomach drops when he sees the handwriting in which it’s been addressed, and turns over completely when he sees what it’s written on.

The bird squawks when he pauses, flapping its wings and boring into Draco with furious black eyes.

“Fine.” He sits down. “Fine.”

He unrolls the parchment with a lump in his throat and is met with his own copy, unedited, as he’d directed.

> _What Ministry darling traded red robes for something a little more Muggle while entertaining his Wordly, Wizarding, already-Named paramour in rather public fashion? Readers might be forgiven for not guessing sooner. If our mystery man’s famous face hadn’t been hidden, you’d have been savioured—sorry, saved—a lot of trouble!_

Underneath, in the same barely legible scrawl that his owl somehow knew what to do with, Potter has written:

_Why?_

 

*    *    *

Three days pass before Draco pens a response.

Pansy and Blaise come round for breakfast twice. Pansy is unusually subdued and Draco, to his dismay, is more than half convinced that it’s out of concern.

Jordan runs a segment on the history of public defamation suits in the wizarding world. It’s a solid piece of journalism, even if it does end with a fair bit of editorialising on how, even though they’re legal, blind items are one of the more unkind tactics used by newspapers. Draco’s doesn’t make the list they feature of “Top Ten Most Ridiculous Blinds,” though it’s hard to compete with some of the things politicians get up to with magical sex toys. Though they are amusing, which is why, he tells himself, he listens to the whole thing, thinly veiled excoriations and all.

There are whispers everywhere. _Witch Weekly_ runs a bit speculating on the relationship between Potter and Jordan. The writers in F and L object minimally when instructed to reassign their best photographers from Potter to the Weird Sister’s album release. Draco checks every single wizarding periodical for further insinuations about him and Potter. There aren’t any. It means he’s done his job. He should be pleased.

Father sends a congratulatory bottle of Champagne and a note suggesting that the blind item was a stroke of genius and Draco is making him very proud indeed. Draco _Incendio_ s the note. Mother sends him chocolates, and all her love. He doesn’t have much of an appetite these days. He gives the sweets to Higsbee.

Potter doesn’t send another owl. Nor does he release a statement, either to confirm or deny.

His message stays tucked under Draco’s blotter, one corner staring up at him accusingly.

On the fourth day—and after three Scotches—Draco picks up a quill.

_Potter–_

He stops.

He doesn’t really have anything to say.

_Any questions may be addressed to our legal department, ℅ Flora Davies_

He crosses it out.

_As you may be aware, our night out resulted in negative publicity_

He folds the parchment over, covers the words, and starts again on the other side.

_As usual, your communication lacks any semblance of clarity. Please direct any questions to_

No. He turns to the last clean quarter of a page and tries again, quill hesitating over the page.

_Why not?_

He crumples it up and throws it in the bin. Takes a clean sheet of parchment from the pile.

_You’re welcome. May you and Jordan be very happy together._

He wraps it around the neck of the Champagne bottle that's still sitting where his father's owl had left it and sends it to the mail room.

His reply comes not an hour later. The same angry tawny alights on his windowsill, carrying the half-shredded remains of a Dom Pérignon label, shattered glass still stuck to the back.

*    *    *

The next morning, Draco frames the label in a shadow box on his wall, giving it pride of place among years’ worth of vitriolic responses from public figures.

He doubles his usual order of fruit, but can’t make himself eat half as much as usual. He goes so far as actually inviting Pansy and Blaise round for breakfast. She floats raspberries in the Champagne to get him to eat something, and Blaise gives him a manly hug goodbye when they depart.

He tries being nice to Higsbee, which almost reduces Higsbee to tears, so Draco has him banned from his office for a full 48 hours to compensate.

He locks the drinks cabinet. He removes the Scotch first, of course, but it keeps the Pensieve out of reach.

Unfortunately, his own mind isn’t so neatly locked away. The longer he goes without thinking about any of it, the more persistently thoughts of Potter reassert themselves. He can’t shake the cruelly fresh memory of Potter’s enraptured face looking up at him, or his sleepy contentment as he’d rested on Draco’s knees. Can’t forget the heat of his fingertips.

It’s awful, which at least reminds him of why he gave it all up in the first place.

The thought doesn’t help him sleep, though.

A week and a half of sleepless nights and too many drinks and torturous memories would put anyone round the twist, he reasons. And he’s probably just overtired and needs to get it out of his system. Needs to get anything that can jog those memories out of his life.

Unfinished business is a prime example of exactly that sort of thing. Which is why he finds himself, freezing in silk pyjamas, reading glasses still perched on his nose, trudging to the Owlery before sunrise with a letter in hand.

_Harry—_

_So sorry the Champagne didn’t suit. Please allow me to extend my apologies in person._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy_

He wraps the parchment around an eagle owl’s extended leg. It’s not as tidy as his usual correspondence, but that’s hardly the kind of thing Potter will notice.

He watches the owl take off, goes to the library, and reads Rita Skeeter’s second unauthorised Potter biography until it’s not too early to dress for work.

*    *    *

Draco’s too tired to hide his disappointment when the morning passes without the arrival of Potter's owl or, more to the point, Potter, storming through the _Prophet_ offices. Though it doesn’t much matter; his staff are so well-versed in avoiding him at this point that there’s no one left to hide it from.

It’s half four—which is to say, he’s almost made it through the day—when Potter’s stupid, vicious owl alights on the sill. Draco’s heart leaps, his stomach drops, and it’s enough, in combination, to put him at serious risk of vomiting.

He unrolls the parchment under the owl’s beady little eyes.

_Your office. 8pm. Be there.  
\- H_

Draco stares at the note. Reads and rereads and wishes there was more of it. Wishes there was anything to go on, other than the implication that Potter will be here, to see him, presumably to talk, though maybe to smash more bottles.

Or maybe to suck him off until he’s incoherent with want, or to punch him in the face, or to stand there, bold and powerful and unflinching as he always is, and ask Draco why, and what he wants, and what he’s doing.

He barely manages to summon the bin in time. Even once his stomach is thoroughly emptied, part of him wishes he could keep going, that he could rid himself of these feelings right along with the Scotch.

Instead, he rests his sweaty forehead against the edge of the desk and puts all of his energy into breathing.

*    *    *

Looking intimidating is something of a Malfoy birthright, so Draco’s not certain of why it’s not coming more easily. He’s cast all the necessary cleaning spells and then some. And taken the Floo home and back for a shower and a change of robes. He looks as professional, as put together, as he would on the best of days.

And yet. He steeples and unsteeples his finger, furrows and unforrows his brow, puts his feet up on the desk and takes them down again. He decides to turn around, to look disinterested and preoccupied. The king observing his domain, looking down at the insignificant people below.

Only, when he turns, Potter is sitting outside his window on a broomstick, looking more amused than he has any right to be.

Draco scowls, jumps up, and lifts the window with such force that it rattles in his hands. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Potter crosses his arms. “Avoiding your staff. Can’t remember the last time they’ve gone this long without following me around. Thought they might drop if I just walked into their office.”

Draco gapes, tries to recover. “Do you intend to talk from out there?”

“If I remember correctly, it’s rather rude not to invite someone in.”

“Off your front step, certainly. The etiquette on windows is less transparent.”

“Is this actually why you asked me here? Because your note said—”

“No, no. Come inside.” Draco corrects himself when Potter raises an eyebrow. “Please, won’t you come in?”

“Stand back.”

In spite of his shock, Draco does it just in time, both to avoid a collision and to see Potter swing himself through the window and land with infuriating grace. The urge to taunt is near-irrepressible; he wants to ask if Potter’s training for the ballet, but the words feel too familiar in his throat and he catches them in a wave of nostalgic regret that hits the back of his teeth and stops just in time.

Potter is watching him. “All right?”

“Yes,” Draco recovers. “I - yes.”

“Not too many fly-by visitors?”

“No.”

“Well.” Potter leans his broomstick against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. “You wanted to apologise?”

Draco pauses. “Yes.” He swallows. “I didn’t know if you would come.”

Potter barks out a half-laugh. “Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly say what for. Curiosity killed the cat and all that.”

“Oh.” Draco’s stomach sinks. He hadn’t actually thought about what he would be apologising for. It seemed evident that some sort of apology was necessary for the Champagne and perhaps the blind item, but it seems, if his expectant eyebrow is anything to go by, that Potter is anticipating something more. “Would you like to have a seat?”

The look he’s met with is clearly wary, but Potter takes the proffered seat across the desk.

Draco moves to sit in his own chair, but quickly thinks better of it. It won’t do to have Potter feel like an employee, like Draco’s talking down to him.

He saves it by perching on the arm of the chair. “And a drink? Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Right.” Draco rounds the desk and sits next to Harry, not prepared to turn to look at him just yet. “Well.”

“Well,” Potter repeats. His voice is quiet, his eyes still trained on Draco.

“I wanted to apologise.” He waits for an interruption. None comes. “For the Champagne, which I gather was not to your taste.”

Still no response.

“Furthermore, I realise the blind was pushing the boundaries of our agreement and, while you didn’t strictly fulfil the terms of our agreement either, inasmuch as the press was rather marred by scandal, it was a dishonourable business practise and one that is inconsistent with the high standards we set here at the _Prophet_.”

The silence that follows is so complete that Draco suspects he could hear a quill drop. He can’t resist the urge to fill it. “We are prepared to make a retraction—also in blind form, so as not to name names, as I assume you would prefer—which I will oversee myself.”

He can hear Potter turning to look at him. He can feel it.

“We will also send our best team to document the charity event of your choosing, and are willing to devote several hundred words to coverage of that cause, as a gesture of sincere regret and goodwill. We do hope that—”

“You think I’m upset about the blind item?”

It brings Draco up short.

“I don’t mean to say—I _am_ upset about the blind item. Not exactly a pleasant day at work, thanks very much. Pretty crap move of you, really. I mean—is that what you asked me here to apologise for?”

“What else?” Draco’s voice is thinner and higher than he meant it to be, though he resists the urge to cringe at the sound of it.

“So, I’m here for a meeting with the owner and editor-in-chief of the _Daily Prophet_ , then?”

“Of course.” Draco examines his desk. He so rarely sees it from this angle.

“You’re in the habit of sending messy 4am owls in your capacity as owner and editor-in-chief of the _Daily Prophet_?”

“You’re a high-profile celebrity and high-ranking Auror. Maintaining our relationship with you is a high priority matter.”

“Your _relationship_ with me?” Potter’s voice is incredulous, and considerably steadier than Draco’s. “ _Relationship_? The one where your photographers follow me around relentlessly and you print the photos with whatever damn caption you please and never so much as ask for a statement?

“Though,” Potter laughs bitterly, “I’m beginning to think that is your idea of a relationship. Fuck, Draco.”

Draco opens his mouth, but Potter’s not having it.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

Again, Draco tries to interject, but finds himself without the chance to get a word in edgeways. Which is for the best, since he doesn’t really have anything to say.

“Of all the things you could’ve said. Not that I’m not pissed off about the fucking blind, mind you, but it’s pretty bloody low on the list.”

“List?” Draco manages.

“List,” Potter affirms. “Definitely in front of neglecting to refill my drink even once at the St. Mungo’s do and, at this point, the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges, but well behind responding to a declaration of love by spending years pretending like I didn’t exist outside of the bloody gossip pages.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Potter laughs again. “ _Oh_?”

He’s up and out of the chair, and it’s just one step till he’s crouched in front of Draco, balancing himself with one arm across Draco’s knees, the other hand coming up to grasp Draco’s chin.

Draco doesn’t resist. He lets Potter turn his face so that they’re looking at each other, really looking, and just that—just the five points of Potter’s fingertips against his skin—is enough to leave him speechless and sad.

Potter’s eyes are a lot less angry than he’d expected, and when he looks into Draco’s he repeats himself, with almost as much sadness as Draco feels. “Oh.” Potter blinks. “You really didn’t—you don’t have a list, did you?”

“No.” Draco’s only ever been able to lie to Potter at a distance.

“What did you think I thought for all those years?”

“You were fine,” Draco mumbles.

“I was fine?” Harry counters. “I was never fine.”

“You looked fine.”

“Then you didn’t look closely enough.”

“I looked.” Draco swallows. “I looked closely.”

Harry drops his hand from Draco’s face to his arm, and maybe it’s the open window but Draco has to repress a shiver. “And what did you see?”

“You were fine. You had— you went out, you were promoted, you— there were other— there were men.”

“I kept busy.”

“You were fine,” Draco repeats, trying for certainty.

“I was never fine.” Harry rocks back on his heels and stands. “How could I have been?”

He rounds the desk and grips his broomstick. “Owl me if you decide you have something more to say.”

Impossible as ever, he swings his legs over the sill, grabs his broomstick, and jumps.

Draco’s heart lurches.

He can hear Harry land on the broom. Hears him grunt as he always has, without even realising it, when he reseats himself after some insane trick. Hears the broom pick up speed and fade into the background. He’s not worried that Harry’s been hurt.

Though, he’s never considered it, really, and he feels a little ill at the thought.

Harry’s always been there, as a possibility if not a reality. All he needs to do is pull out his Pensieve or send someone on assignment and there Harry is. He’s seen him at balls, at pubs, at parties, at press conferences. Seen him out in Diagon Alley getting ice cream for his godchildren, shopping with friends. Among other things. He’s the Boy Who bloody Lived, for Merlin’s sake, and of course he would always be there.

But what if he wasn’t?

What if he missed his broom?

Or what if he never came back?

What if— it was always Draco who left, meaning it was up to Draco to return, or not return, or put it out of his mind for years at a time. What if Potter left him back?

It takes Draco a solid half hour to recover his legs.


	4. Retraction

It’s like they’ve got an emotional tracking spell on him, Pansy and Blaise. He half wonders if they do. He certainly wouldn’t put it past them. He’s also not certain he would object, if that’s what makes them turn up for breakfast the next morning. If anything, he would be grateful, and the feeling sits uneasily. Unlike intimidation and machination, gratitude is a bit of a foreign affair.

Fortunately for them all, it would make Pansy and Blaise as uneasy as it does Draco, and, “Champagne, darling?” stands in perfectly well when everyone present knows what it really means.

And when a determined Pansy has the subtlety of an Manticore.

“You look like someone stole your Gobstones. Potter?”

Draco sighs. “Potter did not steal my Gobstones.”

“Don’t be dense. It’s unbecoming.”

Draco laughs at that. “Unbecoming,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t want to be unbecoming.”

“Not if you have any interest in getting Potter back.”

“Pans, of all people, I don’t think Potter is one to make decisions based on one’s becoming-ness or lack thereof.”

“So it is about Potter, then.” She looks like the Kneazle that got the cream.

“Oh, Pansy.” Draco drops his head into his hands.

Neither of them offers any quarter. The bastards.

“Yes,” he mumbles into his palm. “It’s about Potter.” He looks up. “Forgive me?”

Pansy and Blaise exchange a look. She softens. He leans forward. “Draco,” he asks, “whatever for?”

He knows his smile is sad, but he owes them at least the attempt. Though the topic of forgiveness is still a difficult one. He groans and plants his forehead on the table top. “Ask Potter.”

Blaise breaks the ensuing silence first. “Is that a genuine request?”

“Merlin, no.” Draco shoots up. “Absolutely not.”

“But there’s something to ask?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“If that’s the case,” Pansy interrupts, “why would we need to ask him?”

“You don’t. Nevermind. Pass the melon.”

Blaise leans back, perverse amusement written over his features. “I’m not so sure of that. Maybe we do. Pansy?”

“Now you mention it, darling, perhaps it’s not a bad idea.”

“We could stop by the Ministry after breakfast. I’ve been meaning to pay Nott a visit.”

“Yes, of course. And I’ve been meaning to take Millie to lunch. She’s down in Ludicrous Patents, the Auror offices are on the way.”

Draco looks between them, with a mounting sense of stone-cold horror. “No.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Draco, really.” Blaise smiles at Pansy. “Just pop in, have a word.”

“Of course,” Pansy replies, “it wouldn’t be necessary if you just told us.”

“Pansy,” Draco warns.

“Draco,” she warns back.

He looks from Pansy to Blaise and back again. He thinks they mean it. He thinks, at a minimum, that they look curious enough to do it, and wouldn’t that be a disaster, even if the whole thing’s been coiled so tightly in his chest that he can’t really find it in him to object.

His shoulders sag with the realisation that giving in is his best course of action. “He came to the _Prophet_ yesterday.”

Pansy grabs for _Witch Weekly_ , presumably to check their gossip section.

“No, no. He came in through the window.” He shakes his head at their collective raised eyebrows. “To avoid the staff, he said.”

“Okay.” Pansy slides _Witch Weekly_ back across the table. “And what prompted this rather unconventional visit?”

“I may have sent him a letter, extending an apology.”

“Oh.” Pansy perks up at that.

Blaise interrupts before she can settle on a follow-up. “For what, exactly?”

Draco sighs. “For—well, in person, for the blind item.”

“Oh.” Pansy says again. “For the blind, Draco, really?”

Blaise says nothing, but he looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Yes.”

“And…?” Pansy prompts.

“That was his question as well.”

“Let me get this straight.” Blaise leans back to examine Draco. “You conducted a secret affair, ended things in dramatic fashion, have spent the last several years making sure he’s hounded by photographers—which it would seem in retrospect was mostly a way of one-sidedly keeping tabs from afar—printed pictures of him giving professionally compromising head in public, blackmailed him into going to a ball with you, used an extorted date for your professional benefit and got an apparently very proficient blowjob out of it, then printed a blind item that all but discloses him as the mystery photo-cocksucker in one of the season’s most discussed pieces of gossip, and then offered him an apology for the blind, and only for the blind.”

“And a retraction, of sorts.”

“You’ve left out all the stuff about the war,” Pansy adds.

Blaise looks between them as though unsure of whose comment to address first. “Pans, you’re quite right. Draco, you’re quite mad.”

“Am not,” he retorts. He knows it’s not his best.

“Let me guess,” Blaise continues. “Potter came round for an apology, expecting, perhaps, an apology of the heartfelt and comprehensive variety, and instead you offered him—what? A retraction of sorts?”

Draco scowls.

“I don’t think we’re the ones who need to talk to Potter.”

Draco’s scowl deepens.

“Draco.” It’s Pansy’s Serious Voice. “We love you very much and are very sorry to see you hurting—which you are, as is evident to anyone with eyes—even if it does offer a remarkable amount of insight into a decade’s worth of perplexing choices. And while we have not always been Potter’s biggest supporters,” her voice cracks, just for an instant, and Draco wants to kick himself for ever mentioning Potter, “we have always been yours. Clearly, you need to do something. Or else we do.”

“Pansy.” He tries for soft. For reasonable. For okay. “You don’t. I don’t. We don’t belong together, and that’s that. And that’s fine. Better, even.”

“The stubble and morning Scotch-breath say otherwise.”

“In which case I need a shower, not Potter.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

You keep saying this,” Blaise interrupts, “that it’s better this way. Why?”

Draco looks up at him, startled. “Why?”

“Why.”

“Why?”

“Assume, for the moment—difficult though this may be—that we’re trolls in disguise, wholly incapable of putting the pieces together. Why?”

“Because—” Draco starts. “Because.”

Because he’s Harry Potter, Draco thinks. Because his father would have disowned him or dismembered Potter, or both. Because his mother wanted—wants—to see the line restored. Because the paper would have been accused of favouritism and never could’ve become what it is now. Because there would have been rampant speculation that he had Potter under _Imperius_ or had slipped him a love potion, because why else would Potter be with him? Because he would have had to be on constant guard for witches and wizards trying to save Potter from him with all manner of hexes and potions. Because he couldn’t very well have asked Pansy to sit through dinners with the man she’d very publicly wanted to give up to the Dark Lord, or vice-versa. Because the sex was so good he never wanted to do anything but touch Potter, every hour out of every day. Because he knew nothing else would ever compare and if it was going to end eventually—because it was going to end eventually—it was best to end it before it became too inextricably a part of him to be removed. Because it wasn’t possible for Potter to love him back, not really. Because he would have given up everything in an instant if it was. Because, when Potter said “I love you” he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t say it back, couldn’t even find the words, couldn’t find any words, couldn’t even remember where or whether those words had once lived inside him, and if he went looking for that, who knew what else he would find buried in those distant parts of his heart?

Because he’d learned better than to play with fire.

“Because,” he repeats.

“Because?” Blaise asks. “That’s not much of a reason.”

Draco shrugs.

Pansy and Blaise share a loaded look.

Pansy breaks first. “That was a lot of thinking for a one-word answer.”

“Almost as though you haven’t shared the entirety of the thought,” Blaise adds.

Draco toys with the hem of his sleeve.

“Which is, I suppose, fine,” Blaise continues. “As we’re not the ones who need to know it.”

Draco turns it inside out, looking for imperfections.

“Potter, on the other hand.”

Draco shakes his head.

“Yes, Draco.” Pansy’s Serious Voice is back. “You need to talk to him.”

When he doesn’t respond, turning his attention towards his cuticles instead, Blaise’s Serious Voice makes its own appearance. “You do. Whether it’s to apologise properly or explain yourself or grovel for a second chance, you do. And I mean it. We mean it, Draco.” He turns to Pansy. “What do you think?”

“Three days?”

“Generous.”

She shrugs.

“Fine then. Three days, Draco. You talk to him in the next three days, or we do.”

The wave of nausea that hits him is overwhelming. He doesn’t ask for the fruit, or the cream, or the tea, or anything at all. He doesn’t even—can’t even—ask for words, though he seems to have forgotten all of his. He’s silent even when Blaise claps him on the back and Pansy kisses him on the head and whispers, “Three days. We’re a Floo call away if you need us,” before they step into the hearth and disappear.

*    *    *

Draco considers the several options Blaise presented as he gets ready for work.

He can go to Potter, apologise for everything Blaise had mentioned, and beg forgiveness.

He disregards the idea before it’s even fully formed. Groveling lost its appeal about the time His Noselessness moved in, and it’s not the sort of thing Potter’s likely to appreciate anyway.

He can write a letter, make a list, and send it off.

The idea is more palatable than the last, until he remembers that Potter might not respond, and he can’t tolerate the idea of waiting indefinitely for a letter that may or may not arrive.

Then he remembers that Potter has done it—had sent thirty messages that were open and caring, had put his heart on his parchment thirty times, only for Draco to _Incendio_ them without responding—and feels even worse. And really, that’s another reason it won’t work. He’s not courageous like Harry. Not a Gryffindor bone in his body.

But anything he does will be better than what Pansy and Blaise would cook up.

Probably.

There would be a certain welcome simplicity in letting them do this for him.

But Potter already thinks he’s a coward and, while it may be true, he doesn’t want Potter to know it for a fact.

He wonders if there’s more to be made of the photos. Potter’s got a pathologically overdeveloped sense of honour, and the press really didn’t turn out as well as it was meant to have done. Maybe Potter could be persuaded that it’s only right to go to another ball together, to try again.

Blackmailing the Deputy Head Auror once was—well, much riskier than he’d realised at the time, and probably best kept to a one-off.

He could just show up to one of these things and run into Potter. F and L can tell him what Potter’s RSVP’d to, and then they’d be on more equal footing, and that’s not a bad idea.

Or he could ask Potter to one of these things.

That would be a bit brave, he thinks. Brave in the sort of way that doesn’t involve being rejected to his face, but that might still hold weight with Potter.

There is a glimmer, there, of something. Something that feels, if not good, at least better than the other options.

He pulls out his best parchment and quill and sets to writing out the sort of formal invitation he was trained for.

_Draco L. Malfoy_  
_requests the pleasure of your company_  
_at the Hogsmeade Historical Society’s Spring Benefit_  
_8’o clock this coming Saturday._  
_Reply requested by owl._

The response comes so quickly he’s barely worn a path into the rug.

_Or else what?_  
_\- H_  
_P.S. - Asking me out in the third person?_

Draco is so numb with anticipation that he barely notices the tawny’s reproachful stare, barely feels his stomach sink at Potter’s implication that this must be part of some scheme.

He sits down at his desk and picks up a quill.

_Dear Harry,_

_I would like to request the pleasure of your company at the Hogsmeade Historical Society’s Spring Benefit this coming Saturday. Please reply by owl._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy_

The bird is going back to Harry anyway; he sends the note along with it.

The owl’s day is busier than Draco’s.

 

*

_Draco,_  
_Repeat: or else what?_  
_\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_I simply and sincerely request the pleasure of your company this coming Saturday at the Library of Magic Ballroom, for the Hogsmeade Historical Society’s Annual Spring Benefit._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy _

*

_Why would I believe that?_  
_\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_There’s no reason you should. I apologise for the intrusion._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy _

*

_At least you can apologise for something that’s not glaringly obvious._  
_\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_I would like to apologise for many things._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy _

*

_Invitation to a ball’s a funny way to go about it._  
_\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_If you would prefer a different venue, I am happy to oblige._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy_

*

_Are you really going to apologise? For something that wouldn’t be obvious to a drunken troll?_  
_\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_If you’ll permit me the opportunity, yes._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy _

*

_Fine. Come round after work.  
\- H_

*

_Dear Harry,_

_Thank you for your invitation. I look forward to seeing you at your home this evening. Please advise as to what time would be most convenient._

_Sincerely,  
Draco L. Malfoy_

*

_7’s good._  
_\- H_

*    *    *

Draco manages to stay in the office until 6. He doesn’t stay still, but he does stay in the room. Until after 6, even. Five after.

He decides to walk. It’s not really an hour’s walk, but he’ll make it into one. Better than sitting restlessly at his desk for another second, he thinks.

He’s at Grimmauld Place by 6:50, and seriously considers vomiting into a tree as a basic precaution against unrelenting nerves.

He’s in front of the wards at 6:58. He knocks at seven on the dot.

Harry opens the door in Muggle denims and a jumper and his stocking feet. He stands in the doorway, blocking it, as he did last time, and scrutinises Draco.

He tries not to squirm. He wonders if precautionary regurgitation would’ve been wise after all.

Potter steps aside and gestures inwards. Draco doesn’t push his luck. In he steps, and follows as Potter leads him into the same parlour where they’d left for the Benefactor’s Ball.

He isn’t offered a drink. He isn’t offered a seat. He isn’t sure whether Potter’s just that rude, or making him uncomfortable intentionally. Harry had told him, once, as they’d lain across the bed upstairs, that he’d almost been sorted Slytherin. Draco can see it.

He wonders if it’s the same bed. If it’s still there. If Harry still needs a glass of water next to the bed, and still ends up sleeping at a diagonal.

Then he tries very hard not to wonder those things.

Potter helps with that one, at least, though it’s almost definitely unintentional. He drops into the middle of the sofa and crosses his arms. “Well?”

“I,” Draco starts. “Thank you for having me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Probably intentionally uncomfortable, then.

“I don’t think I mentioned how much I like your renovations.”

“Must’ve gotten lost in the blackmail.”

He almost manages it, but Draco can’t quite suppress a wince, just a tiny one. “Yes, well. It’s very tasteful.”

“I had a lot of time to myself after you disappeared without any warning or explanation.”

“Right.” Draco inhales, folds his hands, and turns to face Potter. He may be the one looking down, but he feels distinctly as though he’s on display. “About that.”

Potter’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry.”

The clock on the mantle is awfully loud.

Draco’s not sure what exactly he expected to happen when he said the words. Fireworks? Champagne? Potter’s unequivocal, possibly tearful acceptance, followed by a night of passion?

He’s fairly certain it wasn’t Champagne.

Potter crosses an ankle over the opposite knee and rests folded hands on his lap. His face is unusually, unfairly, blank.

The ticking is really loud. Potter should get a clockmaker in.

Draco exhales and it practically echoes in the silence. He wonders if this is how Potter breaks suspects, leaving them to stew in the morass of their own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Potter raises an eyebrow which, compared to the silence, is at least something Draco can work with.

“Not just for the blind item. Though I will concede that it was, perhaps, not especially mature or appropriate.”

Potter’s eyebrow falls back into place, as does his implacability.

“But for other things as well.” Draco takes a deep breath. “I apologise if you wanted more privacy than our coverage at the _Prophet_ has allowed for; I will be happy to speak with our head of Fashion and Lifestyle about changing those protocols permanently, if that would be helpful.”

The tinge of annoyance edging onto Potter’s face is a sure sign that a different strategy is in order. He’d wanted less business talk. That’s fine. Draco can do that.

“I apologise, as well, for taking a rather unscrupulous approach to…arranging for your company at the St. Mungo’s Benefactor’s Ball and for being, perhaps, ungentlemanly in the course of the evening’s events.”

Potter lets out a tiny snort at that, but is otherwise impassive.

“You also have my sincere apologies for my lack of a timely response to your previous correspondence. It was…quite rude of me to leave your messages unanswered.”

Potter narrows his eyes at that, but, Draco thinks, it is neither overtly hostile nor wholly disinterested. Perhaps a profitable path to pursue.

“And to be so abrupt about changing the course of our interactions. It was…unkind of me, and I apologise for that as well.”

Potter leans forward, elbow on his knee. Draco tries very hard to stay still, tempted though he is to make a run for it or, at least, fidget unbecomingly.

At last, Potter speaks. “That’s it?” He doesn’t sound angry, or even disappointed. It’s more of the same reserved blankness.

“I’m sorry if it’s an incomplete accounting.”

Potter’s face remains inscrutable. “Is it?”

“I…I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.”

“You’re sorry you didn’t answer my letters. You’re sorry for the photographers, even though I’ve told you already that, as the only thing I’ve had to go on, I hate them a lot less than I probably should. You’re sorry for the blackmail. You’re sorry for, what was it? ‘Abruptly changing the course of our interactions’?” He pauses, expectant.

“Yes.”

“Is that everything?”

Draco’s confusion must be showing; Potter leans back, arms crossed over his chest, and sighs. “You left.”

“I—yes.”

“That isn’t on your list.”

Oh. The realisation hits Draco alongside a return of his queasiness.

“So, is your list complete?”

He scrambles to get his thoughts in order, but it’s not quick enough. “As opposed to—?”

“Draco.” Potter sighs. “I’m asking. Are you sorry you left?”

Of all the questions he might’ve expected, this one—well, he feels remarkably stupid, but this wasn’t one of them. Leaving Harry has been something factual and irrevocable for so long that it’s never made sense to consider it in terms of regret.

Yet Potter’s looking at him as though it’s a question that should obviously make sense, and that is, itself, confusing. Why it should matter, why it has any relevance at all…it’s beyond him. “Why?”

“Why?” Potter repeats, unmistakably astonished by the question.

“I—why does it matter?”

“Why does it matter? Draco–” he looks at Draco, shakes his head, mumbles something to himself. “Did you hear anything I said to you the other night?”

“Of course.” It’s automatic, defensive. Even if he’d been so shocked by it all that Harry’s actual words had sort of washed over him at the time. “I hear perfectly well.”

“Then?”

“I don’t—I don’t see why it matters. It’s a question, not a time-turner.”

“Does it have to be a time-turner to make a difference now?”

“The past is done with. Unchangeable. You know that as well as I do.”

“Do I?” Potter muses, falling back against the sofa. “Then why do you think I’m asking?”

“Too curious for your own good,” Draco mumbles, before he thinks better of it.

Potter laughs at that, soft and low, and Draco can’t do anything about the way his heart swells, however minutely, at the sound. “True. But you’re the one who came to apologise. Put me out of my misery, one way or another.”

“Or another?” Draco’s stomach turns over.

Potter sighs again, this one wearier than the last. “Answer the question, would you?”

“Do I regret leaving?” His heart is pounding now. He should’ve known, should’ve expected, but he doesn’t have an answer for this question. Not one that he can give out loud.

“Hmm. Asked if you were sorry, actually, but I like your question better. Regret. Do you regret leaving?”

“Yes.” Draco almost chokes on the word, thoroughly unprepared for it to make its way through his lips. The word is so unequivocal, so nakedly out there and, worst of all, so true, that his stomach withdraws into tight coils, that he bites down as though wishing he could retroactively catch the word between his teeth and keep it there.

Until Potter smiles. “Well then.” It’s almost a grin. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Draco repeats, barely above a whisper.

“Then, yes.”

“Yes?” Blood rushes through his ears.

“Pick me up at 5 to 8.”

“Oh.” Draco exhales with unmistakable relief. The questioning is over, and he’s still here, and Potter’s saying yes to something. “Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Pick you up, as in—?” As in a time-turner? As in, an overdue answer to his letters?

“Pick me up for the Hogsmeade Historical Society’s whatever—the thing.”

“Right. Yes. I—yes.”

“We’ll be attending as dates, is that right?” Potter’s voice is so insistent that it’s barely a question.

Draco’s hesitation is entirely borne of disbelief, and therefore blessedly brief. “Yes.”

“Great.”

“Yes.” Draco is entirely unsure of what to do next. He’s going on a date with Potter, apparently. Does that mean they’re done here, and that he should leave before he makes a bigger fool of himself? Does that mean there’s a possibility that he could cross the space between them and sit down next to Potter, press their knees together, or their arms, that he could touch Potter’s skin, even for an instant? Does that mean that he’s made a tremendous mistake?

“All right there?” Potter continues on, looking concerned.

“I— yes. I’ll see you then, then.”

“Yeah,” Potter flashes a grin, and the hint of mischief–of promise–in it makes Draco’s knees weak. “You will.”

He’s breathless at the implication. “Right.” Draco swallows. “Right. Well then. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“For a date,” Potter repeats. There’s a hint of warning in his voice. “A public date. You and I, at the Library of Magic Ballroom, together, in front of people.”

“Yes.”

“Not a business arrangement. Not an acquaintanceship. Not a friendship. A date.”

Draco nods.

“If anyone asks, you’ll say?”

His throat is parched. “A date,” he repeats.

Potter smiles. “Saturday, then. It’s a date.”

Draco has no idea how he finds his way to the Floo, or through it, or into his living room, or into his bed, but he wakes up the next morning rock hard, smiling, and terrified.

*    *    *

Potter may not need a tailor, but Draco has a call in to Esmerelda Twilfit before the elves have got breakfast on the table. There’s no time to spare. He wants something new, and it’s got to be perfect. He arranges a meeting, and it’s on to the next thing.

He’s in the office by 8, with a memo to F and L to send him the complete guest list for the HHS event, another to the photo team directing them to leave Potter alone until further notice, and a third on Higsbee’s desk with orders to see him immediately.

Higsbee arrives so quickly, Draco half wonders if he deserves a raise.

“Sir?” He peeks around the door.

“Higsbee. Good man. In you come.”

He steps through the doorframe, displaying a level of queasiness that’s become familiar to Draco of late. “Sir, you needed something?”

“Yes, yes.” He pauses. “Have a seat.” 

“A seat, sir?” Higsbee eyes the chairs nervously. Not unreasonable; Draco’s directed some of his finest bollocking to their occupants, Higsbee included.

“And a drink if you’d like.”

Higsbee blanches.

“No,” Draco half-laughs. He hopes it hides his nervousness. “Routine business, that’s all.”

“Sir?” Higsbee asks, disbelieving.

“A bit of follow up. Scotch?”

“Bit early, isn’t it? Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he hurries to add.

“Five o’clock somewhere. Or something else if you’d rather?”

“Water?” Higsbee squeaks.

“You’re sure?”

Higsbee nods furiously.

“Very well.” Draco spells the chair away from the desk. Higsbee takes the hint, dropping into it, accepting the water, and looking marginally less terrified when Draco takes his own seat across the desk.

“This photograph, the one that’s caused all the ruckus.”

“The Warbeck photos, sir?”

“The— what? No, no. The Jordan photos. What Warbeck photos?”

“This month’s ruckus, sir.”

“Hm.” Has he really missed so much? More to the point, does he care, if it’s Warbeck versus Potter? “Last month’s ruckus, then.”

“There haven’t been any legal challenges, sir, just as you predicted.”

“Of course not. That was never my concern.”

“Then…what, sir?”

“You’re the head of Fashion and Lifestyle. In that capacity, how much would you say you know about the interpersonal relationships of wizarding celebrities?”

“Some more than others, sir, but on the whole,” Higsbee puffs up, looking at least half a dozen times prouder than usual, “quite a lot.”

“Excellent, excellent. This photo, then, Potter and Jordan – is there precedent there?”

“Precedent? Other photos, you mean?”

“Photos, murmurings. How would you characterise the relationship between them?”

“Well,” Higsbee deflates a smidgen, given over to something a bit more uneasy. “I’m not sure of how to characterise it, exactly, sir. Not…well, in present company.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, trying not to imagine what Pansy and Blaise would have to say about that. “Close your eyes and pretend I’m someone else, then.”

“Sir?” Higsbee looks up nervously.

“Figure of speech.”

“Oh,” he exhales, clearly relieved.

“Nothing you say in the next minute will be held against you. How would you characterise their relationship?”

“Well, sir.” He twists his fingers, clamping down on lingering nervousness. “I believe the technical term, at least among Muggles, is,” his voice drops to a stage whisper, “fuck buddies.”

Draco laughs, a real laugh. “Brilliant.”

“It is?”

Draco reconsiders. “Depends. How long have they been at it?”

“At what, exactly, sir?”

“Being fuck buddies. Unless there’s more to it?”

“No, sir, no. It’s just–it’s quite a long time, but not in the way you might suspect.”

Draco’s glee is dampened considerably. “How long?”

“As far as we know, sir, over the course of the past several years, when neither of them was seeing anyone else they would, from time to time, until recently, go out to various nightclubs together. Occasionally, those occasions ended in a particularly…climactic fashion for one or both of them. Even more occasionally, rumour has it, the…climactic piece was a shared one.”

“Until recently, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Potter hasn’t been seen in a nightclub since the photo was taken. Though, sir, we could confirm that with more certainty if you’d let us reassign a detail to covering him.”

Ignoring the implied request, Draco leans forward, his brow furrowed. “And it’s been strictly casual? The whole time?”

“Yes, sir. The occasional night out or group drinks with mutual friends, but no restaurants, no galas, nothing that has them alone together. And…” Higsbee shifts nervously.

The calm that had been coming over Draco wavers at Higsbee’s equivocation. “Yes?”

“Well, you see, the photograph, and his statement about the photograph, were really rather good for Mr Jordan’s social standing. He’s been seeing Donaghan Tremlett from the Weird Sisters for three weeks now.”

Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’s been holding. “You’re certain?”

“They’ve been to two WWN publicity events together, have been photographed shopping in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and Soho, and he’s taken Donaghan to L’Arrondisement twice.”

It’s good news. Very good news. Surprising on more than one count, but only one that he’ll ask Higsbee about. “Jordan can get reservations there?”

“Yes, sir. He and the maitre’d are…well, favours are owed.”

“Higsbee?”

“Yes, sir?”

Draco pulls a tin from his desk and pushes it at Higsbee. “Have a biscuit.”

*    *    *

Twilfit is magnificent. Almost as magnificent as her work which, Draco thinks, may be magical in effect as well as construction. She’s chosen a lapis that he never would’ve given a second thought—almost sent straight out of his office, truth be told—but that looks superb with navy and silver trim, and is cut to perfection.

Higsbee continues to be subtly tolerable. Draco finds himself with several new items to review each day. Among them are pictures of Jordan and Tremlett at a WWN fundraiser and a blind item from the _Quibbler_ suggesting that Potter has found his own tailor and is investing rather seriously in new robes. Draco finds the latter particularly interesting because Lovegood and the _Quibbler_ staff won’t print anything Harry doesn’t approve of, and Harry knows Draco reads the _Quibbler_ , and it’s almost as if Harry wanted him to see it. Higsbee may be finding himself in biscuits for life.

Pansy and Blaise are proud of him. They do Draco the favour of pretending it’s pure smugness at having Slytherined him into asking Potter out properly, but Pansy comes to stand behind him just to stroke his hair while he reads the paper, and Blaise brings him mango Mrs Zabini’s sent from India, and they mention, in passing, that they’ve secured tickets to the HHS event just in case Draco should decide some friendly faces would be welcome.

The week still drags, though. By Friday, Draco’s had his robes finished and pressed, had the elves clean the Manor top to bottom just for something to oversee, reassigned half his photographers, started in on a plan for streamlining the business desk, and caught up almost completely on his personal and professional correspondence.

Including the note he sends Potter Friday afternoon, which reads simply, _Looking forward to it._

He worries it’s too much. He worries it’s not enough. He worries, once he spots it in on his window sill, that Potter’s tawny will bite his finger off and he’ll be forced to combine his new robes with some distinctly down-market bandages, which is as close as he’ll come to conceding that he’s terrified of what the owl is carrying.

And when it’s a note that simply reads, “ _Me too – H_ ” he’s worried that he won’t sleep a wink.

*    *    *

Draco does not sleep a wink.

It’s not that anything’s been left unfinished. If anything, the opposite. His robes are pressed and hung, his nails manicured, his routine for the day of entirely planned. There’s nothing left to do. Nothing left to fill his brain.

So, he thinks.

Thinks back to the reasons—the long list of very sound reasons—he’d had for leaving Potter.

Thinks back to the day he’d done it. Lying naked in Harry’s bed two autumns after the war, with Harry running his fingers through the fine hair on Draco’s chest and talking about next summer, next year, shopping in Diagon come Christmas, trips to places Draco had always wanted to see. And his father’s voice—and his mother’s, and his own, with all those little misgivings that hung on like a horde of angry Pixies—still overtook Harry’s. And then Harry had looked up at him, eyes wide, and said, “I love you, you know.” Draco had pulled Harry to his chest and hoped Harry couldn’t hear his heart icing over. He waited there, an hour, maybe, his hands carding Harry’s hair as he tried to find the words, but when Harry's breath slowed and they didn’t come he left—slipped out of Harry’s bed and into his trousers and carried his shoes as he snuck down to the Floo, and never opened any of the notes that arrived every day for a month after.

Thinks back to the ways he’d justified it after. No more demands to throw over the women his parents insisted he escort to fundraisers. No more having to watch Harry’s face fall when he promised _eventually_ —eventually he’d meet Granger and Weasley for drinks; eventually they’d go out together in public; eventually they’d let their picture be taken together; eventually they’d meet at the pub after work instead of meeting at Harry’s after they’d gone out drinking with their separate groups of friends; eventually they’d go to the Burrow and have dinner with the Weasleys, the thought of which had filled Draco with so much dread than even an “eventually” was pushing it. No more worrying that Harry would come to his senses, that—no matter how many fantasies he described, no matter how many of his own eventuallys Harry promised—every night was the last night. No more hiding, because there was nothing left to hide. Nothing left worth hiding.

Thinks back to the years that followed. The nights he’d Apparated to Grimmauld Place, only to turn around and leave again. Waiting for owls that never came on the 31st day, and the 32nd, and the 40th. The excursions to Muggle bars and bathhouses. The number of times he’d fucked men he came close enough to loathing in search of that spark, and failed to find it. The backwards realisation that there had to have been more than loathing there, even from the start, with him and Potter. The even worse and even more backwards realisation that he had already known that. The emptiness of his bed ever since. The emptiness of the Manor after his parents left for France. The realisation that running the _Prophet_ meant he could still watch Harry from afar. The way it had become a routine, a matter of business. A matter of course.

Thinks about their most recent conversation in the parlour at 12 Grimmauld. How hard it had been not to remember the times they’d fucked over the back of a dusty armchair in that room, the times he’d reduced Harry to begging on the threadbare rug in front of the fireplace. How confident Harry is now, in the refinished room, watching Draco. How well Harry still knows him.

He thinks about Harry’s declarations in the cloakroom, tries to remember all the words he was too shocked to really hear. From the recesses of his mind, he pulls out sentence fragments he can almost be sure of. Things about wanting that weren’t in the past tense. Things about hope.

Draco thinks about hope. He wishes he could get rid of it. Wishes that this revolving litany of past mistakes wasn’t mostly an ineffective way of keeping hope at bay. Wishes he could stop imagining being greeted by a smiling Harry, or the way they might dance together in public for everyone to see, the way Harry had always joked about but really had always wanted. He wishes he could stop imagining the end of the night, escorting Harry home and being invited inside, and finding out how things have changed upstairs. Wishes he didn’t wish for at least one night’s chance to write over all the other men who have occupied the other side of Harry’s bed. He wishes he could stop himself from thinking of what he’ll do—of what will be left of him—if it happens but is only one night.

And then he thinks about courage, and what that would mean, and whether it’s anything he’s capable of.

And when he closes his eyes, he still sees Harry’s skin, and the coarse hair on his thighs, and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that didn’t used to be there but are lovely all the same. And he thinks maybe it’s a fine line, really, between courage and fear. And he wonders if having one of the two—if letting himself acknowledge that he is, in fact, scared out of his bloody mind—could be enough.


	5. Fear

Draco is still wondering about the usefulness of fear when he knocks on the door to 12 Grimmauld at 5 to 8 the next evening. Even with a lengthy afternoon nap, he’s vibrating with exhaustion. And excitement. And terror. And the strength of a resolution made in the middle of the night to, if he can’t be properly fearless, at least be properly fearful. To do whatever makes him most afraid.

His heart is in his throat. He counts 36 beats before Potter—Harry—opens the door.

Harry, who is stunning in emerald green robes that do astounding things for his eyes. Harry, who smiles at him and asks if he’d like to come in.

Draco would. He does.

He can’t stop watching Harry. The way he walks, the way he turns his head so he can speak to Draco even when Draco’s behind him. The way he takes a pinch of Floo Powder in his fingers and announces the address with the sort of certainty he hadn’t had at 20.

Again, Harry is waiting for him, arm extended. Again, Harry hands a card to the herald, who announces “Harry James Potter and Draco L. Malfoy.” Harry squeezes his arm on the “L.” Draco squeezes back.

He follows Harry down the staircase. He doesn’t ignore the stares, or the litany of doubts that make him wonder what they’re all thinking, or the urge to drop Harry’s hand. Instead, he thinks about what will happen if he lets go.

At the bottom of the staircase Harry starts to loosen his hold on Draco’s arm. Draco lets him, only to twine their fingers together.

Harry stares down at their hands with unmistakable surprise, looks back to Draco, and smiles so radiantly Draco loses sight of the rest of the room.

“Champagne?” Harry asks, gesturing towards the bar.

Draco swallows. “Or a dance?”

Harry grins. “A dance.”

“Yes.” Draco’s voice is raspy. He lets it be. “A dance.”

“Together?”

Draco nods.

“Before Champagne?”

Draco lifts their twined fingers and gestures with them towards the dance floor. When Harry nods, he leads the way.

Draco’s now-familiar nausea makes a brief appearance as they make their way to the floor. He imagines the alternative wherein he never gets to do this again. He slides his arm around Harry’s waist.

He’s surprised to learn that Harry has spent at least part of the last decade learning the Veelan waltz. He’s a competent dancer. A fun one, even, who knows when to add his own flourishes.

They stay on the floor for the next dance, and the one after, and they are short of breath, laughing in each other’s arms, after a fourth.

And when Harry smiles at him, he feels it. To his toes, to the roots of his hair, to the pit of his stomach, where it overrides the manifestations of his doubt.

“C’mon,” Harry laughs. “I need a break. Champagne, now?”

Draco nods and lets Harry pull him to the bar.

“Nev!” Harry yells, and the blood drains from Draco’s face.

He remembers all those eventuallys that turned into years of cold sheets. He keeps moving forward.

Neville Longbottom turns to greet Harry with a smile, which drops when he sees Draco.

Harry freezes and takes a probably-unconscious half-step away from Draco.

But at least, Draco thinks, if this is it he will have tried.

“Neville,” Harry’s voice is warm, but with a trace of nervousness. “You remember Draco Malfoy.”

“Yes,” Neville affirms, though without much warmth. He turns to Draco. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” Draco is not presumptuous enough to extend a hand, though he does nod cordially. “And yourself?”

“Also well. Pleased to be able to support such a good cause.”

“Of course,” Draco agrees. There’s nothing else remotely polite that he can say to Longbottom. _“So sorry my aunt cursed your parents into insanity”_? _“Sorry about the years of taunting, you’re not nearly as incompetent as I’d thought, well done”_?

The silence is starting to build. Draco thinks that’s not ideal. He also thinks he can do better. If the past is ill advised, perhaps the present. “Congratulations on the business. I hear your products are the most desirable for the modern potions maker.”

Neville is unmistakably surprised. “Thank you,” he manages.

“I also hear that your innovations with Shrivelfig have made a real difference in the teaching of O.W.L.-level potions as well.”

“I like to think so,” Neville recovers. “Never thought potions needed to be so difficult, if the ingredients were just a bit more stable.”

“And you were right.” Draco attempts a smile. In the corner of his eye, he sees Harry looking back and forth between them, shocked, but smiling.

Harry clears his throat. “You were. Wish we’d had your stuff when we were coming up.”

Neville smiles at Harry. “If only we hadn’t destroyed all the time-turners, eh?”

Harry laughs, warm and genuine. “Bunch of old-timers like us showing up in potions? Think they might notice, Nev.”

Neville laughs, too, and claps Harry on the shoulder. “Best take advantage of that old age and get on to the Champagne.”

“Will do.” Harry takes Draco’s hand. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” Neville nods. “Draco.”

Draco returns the nod, buoyed by Harry’s warm fingers between his own, and lets himself be guided to the bar.

More introductions are made, Champagne in hand, and Draco manages not to make a mess of any of them. He’s grateful that Granger and Weasley aren’t in attendance—home with a sick child, Harry says—but he manages with Dean Thomas, with George Weasley, with Susan Bones. Even though he’s struck with the same fear every time one of them appears. Even though it lingers after they’ve left.

He isn’t even that relieved by the appearance of Pansy and Blaise. They both look smashing, but Pansy is so obviously nervous around Potter. Draco’s heart goes out to her. But then, Potter is kind. He seems, genuinely, to have forgiven her. None of them know what to do with that, but Pansy’s eyes are bright by the time they part ways, and Blaise gives Harry a firm handshake, and Harry meets his eye, and something passes between them. Draco couldn’t name it, but he’s so glad of it he’s not sure he needs to.

If nothing else—though it actually amounts to quite a lot else—the fear keep Draco in such an adrenaline-fueled state that the evening passes more quickly than he realises.

When Harry pulls him onto the floor for a last dance, he goes willingly. Happily.

Still, he feels the eyes on them, hears the whispers, particularly from the older witches and wizards gathered around the perimeter of the floor. He feels the rearing of the ugly voice inside of him, urging him to run, to step away before the cameras capture them, before his parents find out, before it’s committed to newsprint, made part of the historical record.

He takes Harry’s waist.

He hears the click of a shutter, sees the flash out of the corner of his eye. Sees the annoyed glance Harry casts at Creevey, who’s wearing _Witch Weekly_ press credentials and holding a still-smoking camera.

That’s it, then. Secret’s out, or will be soon.

Harry slips his hand into Draco's and raises an eyebrow. Draco breathes, and nods, and they dance.

The cameras flash. People stare. And they dance.

They have been this close before, many times, but never in public before tonight. Never with the restrained tension of a proper dance. The way Harry follows feels so natural, and having him this close—close enough that Draco can smell a hint of cologne and, underneath it, the same soap he’s used for years—is intoxicating, their audience be damned.

Harry mock-bows to him at the end of it, and Draco’s smile bursts through his nerves. He extends his hand to Harry, and leads him towards the Floos.

Draco has found himself more at ease than he ever would’ve imagined, but his heart is pounding again by the time they reach the bank of fireplaces.

He and Harry linger in front of a hearth, ignoring the witches and wizards who trickle past them.

Draco takes a deep breath. “I—I’d like to see you home. If you’re amenable.”

“Yes,” Harry exhales. “Merlin, yes. Very amenable. Yours or mine?”

“Yours?” Draco’s heart hangs from his ribs. He’s asking for something more, now. Asking to go back to something that’s more than just Harry’s house.

“Yes,” Harry replies. He nods and repeats the word. “Yes.” He drops Draco’s hand to step through the Floo.

Draco takes a pinch of Floo Powder and holds it between his fingers. He can barely breathe. If he does this, there may be one more thing he can’t take back, and is he sure? Can he be sure? Can he be ready, could he ever be ready, for this thing that he’s about to do?

He is, he reasons, not going to get any less scared standing on the hearthstone. And if he’s got to be terrified—as seems to be a given—then he might as well be terrified and pursuing the thing he wants most.

He throws the powder into the flames, calls out the address, and steps through to Harry’s parlour.

Draco is grateful—more than grateful—to see his own nervousness reflected on Harry’s face. He looks uneasy. Unsure.

It makes Draco want to kiss him even more than he has wanted to all night.

Draco takes a step forward, but before he can act on his impulse, Potter interrupts. “Would you like a drink?”

“Oh,” Draco stops mid-step. “I—Would you?”

“If you would.”

“I’m not really— but we can, certainly, if you’d like.”

“That’s not…” Harry pauses, runs his fingers through his hair. He keeps his eyes pinned on the toes of his boots. “I’m not really.” He pauses, pulls at the hem of his sleeve. Draco’s not sure why he’s suddenly so uncertain, but he continues to stumble through his words. “It’s an option, if you want. That’s all.”

“If I want?”

Harry nods.

“I do, but…” Draco’s heartbeat and the stability of his stomach have belonged to Potter for weeks now, but in this moment he suspects the rest of his body has joined the conspiracy. His lungs refuse to fill. His toes tingle. His cheeks are numb. His thighs are strung tight. His head is light. His chest is warm. His fingers feel heavy and sticky, like he’s stuck them in preserves without noticing. He’s not sure how to even get the next words out. Not sure what he’ll do if he gets them out and finds he’s misunderstood Potter’s meaning entirely.

But he has to find out. He can’t afford not to ask. He’s promised himself he will do whatever his fear suggests, and these are the scariest words he can think of.

Draco takes a deep breath. “But there are things I want more.”

Harry takes a step towards him. “Like?” His voice sounds as breathless as Draco feels.

“Like—” Draco’s anxiety wants to finish the sentence for him, wants to fill in the blank with “a million Galleons” or “a trip to Bangkok.” But those things are a way out. That’s not what he’s scared to say. So he lets his eyelids flutter shut and opens his mouth and says, “You.”

He breathes through the pause. Just barely.

“You,” Harry repeats, with a reverence that shocks Draco into opening his eyes.

Harry is looking at him with such bright-eyed awe that it takes most of Draco’s remaining reserves not to shrink away from it. He has learned, over the years, not to expect to be looked at like that. Had told himself he could live without it.

He was wrong. Merlin, was he wrong. He could breathe and eat and work without it, but live?

He was wrong.

“You,” Draco repeats, eyes open this time. “I want you.”

“For—bed?” Harry asks, eyes flitting nervously upwards at the ceiling and, presumably, the bed above them.

“Yes,” Draco answers, “but not only.”

Harry takes another step towards him. “What else?”

“Dancing,” Draco says. “Champagne.”

“Yeah?” Harry prompts.

“Dinner,” Draco adds. “Letters.”

“Answered letters?”

“Answered letters. And…dates.”

“Public dates?”

“Yes. And…” Draco takes a turn at stepping forward, “breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” Draco repeats. “After…”

“Bed?”

“Yes.”

“For breakfast, you’d have to stay.”

“Yes.”

“And you want?”

“Breakfast.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes. “Breakfast.”

“Breakfast. After—“

“Bed.” Harry steps in again, so close now that their chests almost meet.

“Bed,” Draco agrees.

“It’s upstairs,” Harry tells him.

“I remember.” Draco’s light-headed at the admission.

“Do you want to…?”

“Yes,” Draco cuts him off. “Yes.”

“Right.” Harry smiles at him. He’s nervous too.

It’s impulsive, much like the rest of this mad evening, but Draco leans forward to kiss his cheek.

Harry’s breath hitches. He leans in to Draco, circling an arm around him, resting the side of his head against the side of Draco’s. He breathes deeply and holds them there until Draco becomes aware of the balls of his feet, of the ache in his heels left over from dancing.

Harry keeps hold of Draco’s waist and uses it to lead him out of the parlour and up the stairs.

Draco doesn’t need the leading, not really. But he is grateful for the steadying hand all the same, as every step seems to bring another question.

Will it be the same room?  
Will it have been redecorated?  
How many other men have been there?  
Does Harry still think of him there?  
Will it feel familiar?  
What if it feels entirely different?  
What if it feels like a stranger’s room?  
What if Harry feels like a stranger?  
What if Draco feels like a stranger to Harry?  
What if it isn’t everything he’s remembered?  
What if this is just revenge?  
What if this is a mistake?  
How many steps have they walked up?  
How quickly could he walk back down?

As much as he dislikes it, as much as he completely understands why he has avoided it for so long, it is, now, only the familiar tug of fear, and his commitment to pursuing it, that makes him stay.

Harry stops at the landing and gestures towards a familiar door. Draco’s heart is in his throat as he steps forward to open it.

He is both relieved and sad to find that it is the same room in only the strictest sense. The view is the same, but the windows are spotless. Come morning, the sunlight won’t filter in through the layer of dust that always made it look so soft. The room is no longer bare. There’s a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, and a chair with a chenille throw folded over the back. There’s a set of dusty bedside tables with matching lamps, though they’re both otherwise empty.

The bed is still a four-poster, but if it’s the same one it’s been entirely refinished. There’s no evidence of chipped paint and varnish. It’s a light oak, with cream-coloured sheets and a brown duvet. It’s all very neutral, and Draco rather wonders if this really is Harry’s room.

“I didn’t know,” Harry speaks up from behind him, then trails off. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“You redecorated.”

“Yes.”

“It’s very…” Draco searches for a word. “Nice.”

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Harry repeats. “I tried—I couldn’t stay here.”

“It’s not your room?” Draco turns to look at him.

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “I—it’s always been yours. Ours.”

Draco’s chest swells. “You’ve never…?”

“Sometimes,” Harry starts, then rushes on when Draco’s face darkens, “sometimes I sleep here.”

“Sometimes?”

“When I can’t…just, sometimes.”

“This isn’t your room.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not usually. But I thought you might want…you know.”

“I.” Draco pauses. He does. Or, did. But this room, devoid of Harry…that’s not what it had been about.

He starts again. “You have a room? Another—your own?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods.

“And when you bring men home…?”

“No,” Harry rushes to answer. “No. Guest room.”

“Not this room?”

“No.”

“And your room?”

“No, nobody. Just me.”

“Oh.” Draco hesitates. He’s scared to ask, which means that he must. “Is that house rules?”

“Yeah. Or,” Harry amends, “has been.”

“So…?”

Harry takes in his meaning and looks more than surprised. “You want to see my room?”

“I want,” Draco takes a deep breath, steeling himself to say it again. “I want you. And so, all the things that—” he cuts himself off. “I want to see your room.”

Harry ruffles the wild mess of his hair. “It’s messy.”

“We’re messier.” Draco half-laughs, though he means it.

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “Okay.”

He turns from the room and Draco follows him across the hall. Harry hesitates before he turns the handle.

Draco hasn’t given himself leave to imagine Harry’s room. It would’ve come with too many unwelcome images of the sorts of things he might’ve been up to there. Or too many unwelcome images of the things they could have gotten up to there together, had things been different. But this somehow feels right anyhow.

This bed is lower than the other and has a lovely carved mahogany headboard and matching bedsides tables. The sheets are striped white, with a burgundy duvet. There’s a storage chest at the foot of the bed, and an oversized wardrobe off to the side. There are two windows with curtains that match the duvet, and a cluttered writing desk between the windows.

But more to the point, the duvet is half turned back, as though Harry had only finished making one side of the bed. There are trainers strewn under the wardrobe and several sets of robes thrown over the chair. There’s a water glass and a glasses cleaning cloth and a stack of _Witch Broomstick?_ s on one of the bedside tables, while the other lies empty. There’s a broomstick leaning up against one of the windows, and the cuff of a dress shirt caught in the wardrobe doors. And it smells like Harry. Like his sweat, and his soap, and his skin.

Harry shifts from one foot to the other and back again while Draco takes it in. “Do you—what’d’you think?”

“It’s yours,” Draco replies.

“Yeah, but, what do you think?”

“No, I mean,” Draco turns towards him, “it’s yours.”

Harry looks at him, perplexed.

“I like it,” Draco says. “Because it’s yours.”

“Oh,” Harry takes a breath. “Okay. Because if you wanted to go back to the other—”

“I don’t.”

Harry exhales. “Okay.”

“I want to stay here.” Draco takes a step so they’re face to face.

“Okay. You mean—do you mean…?”

Draco steps forward and cups his cheek. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Harry closes his eyes and leans into it. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Draco insists. “Merlin, yes.”

“You won’t—”

Draco slides his thumb under Harry’s jaw and tilts his chin upwards. Instead of answering, he brushes his lips over Harry’s.

Harry leans up to meet him with a moan. He throws an arm around Draco’s neck as if to keep him there. Draco doesn’t resist. Doesn’t have any reason to, save the hammering in his chest and that adrenaline-fuelled pounding, he’s decided, is smarter than he’s ever been.

He fists Harry’s robes and pulls him backwards as they kiss, until his calves hit the storage chest at the foot of the bed. He almost stumbles; Harry catches him.

“Bed?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees, still recovering his balance.

Harry helps pull him up, then points to the left. “I usually—that’s my side. Unless you – I don’t know how you sleep. Is it the same? I think I was always the left, might be weird to switch now.”

“No, it’s still the right.”

“Right. I mean, okay.”

“Yeah.”

The front of Harry’s robe is still curled into Draco’s fist. When he realises, he lets it drop. He tries for light-hearted. “So, left side for you then?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Unless—is there a better way to?”

Draco’s nausea returns. He wasn’t ready for this sort of fumbling around, like they're strangers. Awkward strangers, at that. “We’ve both done this lots of times.”

“Yes,” Harry frowns. “But it’s not—is it the same to you?”

“No!” Draco is adamant. “No, of course not, just—whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“Um, I could take your robes off for you.”

Draco barely hides a cringe. They sound like schoolboys. “I—do you want to? It’s a bit complicated, the hooks—”

And he can’t believe he’s said it, that after—he’ll now admit—almost ten years of waiting for this moment, he’s reverted to talking about robe closures.

“Right, well. Okay.” Harry strides to the left side of the bed, his back to the room.

Draco stares, watching him, immobilised by some combination of shock and awkwardness and the tiniest sliver of amusement.

Harry slides his robes off his shoulders and throws them over the desk. He’s wearing a dress shirt and trousers underneath and suddenly looks much more ordinary. No less attractive, but much more familiar, as though it’s just the end of an average day. The thought of that is far more exciting than Draco would’ve guessed. Or admitted to guessing.

He watches the way Harry’s biceps flex as he unbuttons his shirt, thrills at the sound of his belt sliding through the loops.

Potter looks over his shoulder, concerned, when his belt is fully in hand. “Are you—?” He turns around. His chest is covered in the same coarse hair Draco remembers, only more of it. “You’re not getting undressed.” He covers his chest with folded arms.

“Sorry,” Draco mumbles, and makes his way to the other side of the bed. “Just—sorry.” He brings his hands to his clasps and slips each hook free of its eye, until they hang loose from his shoulders.

When he looks up, Harry is staring at him. Not just looking, but staring, a bit open-mouthed.

He looks straight on as he slips his robes off his shoulders and—though it pains him—lets them slip to the floor.

He starts in on his waistcoat next, and then his shirt, making quick, precise work of each button, aware, all the while, of Harry’s eyes on him. He keeps going until his state of undress parallels Harry, then he looks up.

They lock eyes for just a moment before Harry’s eyes wander, pointedly, down Draco’s torso. When he returns to catch Draco’s eyes, his look is full of heat and hunger.

Draco stands taller, and slips his shirt from his shoulders.

Harry follows his lead, revealing pale brown nipples and broad shoulders.

They stare at each other across the bed.

They’ve got off together recently enough, but it’s still been a decade since Draco’s seen Harry, really seen any of him. Or since Harry’s seen anything other than his cock and thighs. A cloakroom blowjob isn’t the same as undressing for one’s former lover.

Still, slowly, Draco brings his hands to his flies.

Harry follows his lead.

Eyes locked, they both let their trousers fall. Toeing off his shoes and socks, Draco steps out of them and stands there, naked save his pants, already half-hard, across from Harry.

“Bed?” Harry whispers.

“Yes.” Draco sags a little, relieved.

They slip underneath the covers. Draco pulls them up to mid-chest. Harry doesn’t, but turns to him and murmurs, “Nox?”

Draco nods, and Harry casts the spell and sets his wand on the bedside table, and there they are, in Harry’s bed together, stripped more than half bare, with mere inches between them.

Draco’s breath comes shallow and quick. This moment that he has not-fantasised about for so long is finally here and, while his fear certainly remains present, it’s beyond him to know what to do with it.

It’s Harry who makes the first move. Draco feels his pinkie brush the side of Draco’s palm, and he reaches out to return the caress. Harry links their fingers together and pulls Draco’s hand towards him until they’re holding hands properly.

Harry’s fingers are burning hot and his palms are damp and Draco has never been so grateful for something that is otherwise rather gross. He squeezes Harry’s hand and uses it to gesture for him to come closer, which Harry does with a wiggle that is almost too adorable for the gravity of the situation.

Then they’re laying shoulder to shoulder, the full length of their arms pressed against each other. Draco has to close his eyes against the onslaught of feeling. It’s as though something passes through their skin, as though, pressed against Harry like this, he becomes permeable.

When Harry tilts his toes to brush Draco’s, Draco almost gasps. And then he remembers his resolution. If the gasp is what he’s afraid of, then it’s what he has to do.

He runs his toes up the arch of Harry’s foot and lets himself relax into the hum he’s been restraining.

Harry starts at the noise and gives up the pretence of looking elsewhere. He stares at Draco, shocked at the suggestion that Draco will be giving him more than is required. That Draco will be giving in.

With Harry’s face so close to his, Draco sees no reason to wait any longer. He rolls onto his side and pulls Harry to him, kissing him and groaning so deeply at the feeling of their skin together that he’s sure it reverberates through Harry’s chest.

Not that Harry seems to mind. He pulls Draco towards him, halfway onto him, without hesitation, and opens his mouth to Draco, who’s quick to take what’s being offered.

Draco almost breaks down when their tongues meet. There was no reason to believe that Harry’s taste would’ve changed, but the familiarity of it still shakes him. It’s one thing to have held Harry still in the recesses of his mind for a decade, and another thing altogether to know that he is the same man Draco has wanted for so long. That even with his eyes closed, even with his hands tied behind his back, Draco could know, without doubt, that this is Harry.

So he might be forgiven for the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. For squeezing them shut and breathing Harry in. For lowering himself down slowly, out of the genuine fear that having Harry’s skin pressed against his will be too much.

But then, fear is what he’s here for. Fear, and the possibility of what it might bring.

He presses himself into Harry and doesn’t hold back the guttural sound that starts in his chest. He braces his elbows on either side of Harry’s head and breathes him.

And when Harry rolls his hips up against Draco’s thigh, Draco feels him, too, and the noise is there again and he doesn’t care, wouldn’t hold it back for anything, because Harry is hard. Harry is rock fucking hard for him, _with_ him, and Harry wants him to know it.

Draco rolls back; he wants Harry to know it, too.

Harry isn’t satisfied by it, though. Instead, he pulls Draco closer to him, his nails digging in to Draco’s shoulder blades, his calf wrapping around Draco’s leg.

Draco presses his forehead into Harry’s and lets himself be pulled, until their bodies mirror each other almost perfectly, until Draco’s mouth hovers over Harry’s and he dips down again to taste him.

It’s when he pulls up, just barely, out of the kiss, that he looks down and realises Harry’s not just asking to be tasted, but devoured.

His pupils are blown out, his hair is dishevelled, his chest is flushed, he’s hard and panting and grasping at Draco’s back, at his arms, and the words that come are superfluous, but they go to straight to Draco’s cock regardless.

“More,” Harry pleads. “Merlin, more.”

“More?” Draco asks, half sincerely making an offer, half asking because he sincerely needs to hear it again.

“Please, Draco. More.”

Draco can feel the pounding in his chest race towards his brain. He thinks his eyes slip out of focus for a moment. He suspects he couldn’t forget those words even if he ever wanted to.

Which he doesn’t.

There’s no room for playing games.

“Yes, Harry,” he answers, “More. Anything you…More.”

Harry groans, and bucks against him, and Draco finds himself suddenly, and completely, out of patience with his own hesitation.

He tears back the covers to see, by the glow of the street lamps, Harry laid out before him. Harry’s chest is rising and falling at top speed, each breath escaping with a nervous tremor through the beginnings of a belly he’s picked up along the way. And, just below that, his boxers are tented, the fabric stretched taut around the outline of his erection.

Draco kneels over him, pinning his hips to the bed, and kisses him fiercely before sitting back onto Harry’s thighs.

He hooks his fingers under Harry’s waistband and doesn’t look away from Harry’s nervous, hungry eyes until he’s puled the elastic up and over his cock. His gorgeous fucking cock that Draco hasn’t set eyes on, outside of his own memories, since he was barely out of school.

He’s overwhelmed at the sight of it. It’s everything he remembered, maybe more. He wants to lick it, to suck it into his mouth, to take it in his hand alongside his own and wank them until Harry is begging to come.

But faced with it, he’s almost afraid to touch it, just in case it should reveal that this too, is a memory. He’d tried it in the Pensieve once or twice, and his hand had met with air. With nothingness.

He extends a shaking finger, but still, he worries. He sees Harry fisting the sheets. He knows this isn’t a memory.

Knows it for sure when Harry looks at him and whispers, “Draco, please.”

He crooks his finger and runs the back of it, feather light, over the underside of Harry’s shaft and Merlin but he could cry with relief.

Harry’s skin is velvet soft and warm and solid. The vein that runs the length of him pulses against Draco’s knuckle.

It’s real.

He half-leans, half-collapses forward in relief, resting his forehead against Harry’s ribs and daring to wrap his fingers around Harry’s shaft.

Harry gasps at the sudden contact and moves his fingers from the sheets to Draco’s hair. It’s a hard tug at first, but that’s real too, and that’s what Draco wants most of all.

Draco pulls up enough to press his lips to the soft juncture where Harry’s hip meets his leg, and smiles into the skin when Harry lifts his body to press back.

“Draco,” Harry moans, twisting his hips to suggest that Draco might like to relocate his mouth.

But Draco is not in any sort of rush.

He pins Harry’s hips to the bed and kisses his way down the fronts of his thighs, stripping Harry’s boxers off as he goes. He nudges Harry’s thighs apart to nip his way up this insides. With every lick and bite, Harry opens his legs further, and lets out one more in a stream of whimpers. Draco’s cock twitches; he can feel it, sticking to his pants.

When he reaches the nexus of Harry’s legs, he lets his cheek brush against Harry’s bollocks. But he doesn’t touch his cock, and when he looks up he finds Harry staring down at him, obviously and thoroughly desperate.

“You want it,” Draco marvels, swallowing his own lingering disbelief.

“Yes,” Harry whispers, “Merlin, yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Want you,” Harry breathes.

“To touch you?”

“Yes,” Harry nods.

“Or suck you?”

Harry whines and rolls his hips, burying his fingers in Draco’s hair.

“Or,” Draco lowers a finger from Harry’s thigh to the crease of his arse, “to lick you.”

“Mmmm,” Harry groans. “Draco, yes, _yes_ , just, please.”

Draco pushes back onto his knees and dares to lick one hot, heavy stripe up the base of Harry’s cock.

Harry cries out and bucks his hips, and Draco’s wholly certain that if his mouth wasn’t suddenly full of cock, he’d be yelling too, at the sheer pleasure of being full of this man, of tasting him again.

Draco digs his nails into Harry’s sides and Harry lifts his hips at the shock. Draco’s ready for him this time, hollowing his cheeks to suck him in deep as he can.

He pulls off with a pop, and a familiar hint of salt in the back of his throat.

“Harry.” His voice is ragged. He doesn’t care. “Turn over for me?”

It takes Harry a moment to respond. Seems to take him a moment to even comprehend the words entirely. Then he nods and scrambles to turn over.

Harry stops halfway through. Draco follows his eyes, which are pinned to Draco’s pants.

Harry looks up at him. “You’re still—?”

Draco’s looks down. “Was busy.” His heart thumps against his ribcage. “You can, if you want.”

Harry nods slowly. Almost, Draco thinks, still nervously. Harry scoots down the bed, bracketing Draco’s legs with his own, and lays his fingers against the waistband.

Draco’s cock twitches at the promise of it and he catches the smile that passes over Harry’s face before being replaced with something more serious.

Harry slides his hands under the waistband and around to Draco’s back. He lowers the fabric until his thumbs brush the top of Draco’s arse, then runs his fingers around the curve of Draco’s hips and lifts the fabric, gently, carefully, over Draco’s cock and down his thighs. He doesn’t hesitate to circle the shaft and give a tentative stroke, and Draco has to catch himself on Harry’s shoulder for balance. Harry’s hands are always warm, and he knows how to touch Draco so perfectly that he’s dripping at just those few light strokes.

“You were going to turn over.”

“Yeah. I was.”

“Yeah.” Draco closes his eyes and arches into Harry’s loose fist.

“I love touching you.”

Draco shudders. “Yeah.”

“I want to know if you could come just like this.”

“Yes,” Draco lets out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I could.”

“I want to do this to you all the time.”

Draco laughs again. “Yes. Merlin, Harry. Yes.”

“But now—Draco?”

Draco looks down into Harry’s searching eyes. “Yeah?”

“Now,” he strokes Draco again. “I want you inside me.”

Draco groans and has to pull away just to make sure he doesn’t come at the words alone. “Fuck, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs. “Please do.”

“You were going to turn over?”

“Want to look at you.” Harry slides up the bed and reaches into the bedside table for lube, which he holds out to Draco.

“Spells?” Draco asks; they’re so much faster.

“Don’t get your fingers inside me that way.”

“Oh.” Draco stares at him. It’s a good point, that.

Harry settles his elbows into the pillows and spreads his legs.

“Okay.” Draco walks forward on his knees and takes the tube from Harry. It’s his favourite kind. He wonders if Harry’s remembered that, too.

It’s cold on his fingers. He grabs his wand to warm the lube, casts protection spells while he’s at it.

But then he sets the tube on the sheets and his wand on the table and it’s just the two of them. Harry’s hole, dark pink and waiting, and Draco’s slicked fingers.

Draco steadies himself—sits back on his heels, takes a deep breath, makes sure his fingers aren’t shaking too badly—before he presses a fingertip against Harry’s hole.

Harry arches into him reflexively, even though there’s nothing much to push against, yet. Still, it makes Draco react. He pushes harder, Harry bears down, and then Harry is starting to surround him.

He almost pulls back at the feeling of it. It’s so much. So much more than he’s felt in so long, and if this is a fingertip he’s not sure how he’ll withstand being inside of Harry.

Harry grabs his forearm and calls his name. He looks up, startled.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Draco exhales, and his voice shakes. He’d hate that if it were anyone else.

But then, it wouldn’t be happening with anyone else.

“Yeah,” Draco repeats. “Just, it’s a lot.”

“Not yet.” Harry’s look is loaded, dark.

Draco gives him a shaky smile.

“Hey.” Harry squeezes his wrist again. “Okay? Really?”

“Yeah,” Draco exhales. He is. Even if his heart is pounding and he can’t quite see straight and he’s light-headed and he can’t remember ever being this worried about doing this before. “It’s just…” He breathes and tries to decide what he’s most scared to say. “It’s just a bit…scary.”

Harry looks at him with the sort of soft understanding he never could’ve tolerated at nineteen. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Draco’s startled into looking right into his eyes. “Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. But it’s—it doesn’t get better than this, does it?”

Draco nods his agreement.

“That makes it worth it, right?” There’s a note in the question, like Harry is really and truly still wondering if Draco is going to say no. If he’s going to take his slicked fingers and his dripping cock and Apparate away.

It makes Draco’s chest ache. “Right.” It’s more decisive than he expects. But that’s right, too. He is certain, and Harry is right.

“Right, then.” Harry takes a deep breath and gives Draco’s wrist a last squeeze. “Then…Draco?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck me, would you?”

Draco barks out a single laugh and nods. “Yeah.”

Harry leans back and spreads his legs, keeping his eyes on Draco, who feels his way back, who presses a finger against Harry’s hole and pushes, and Harry bears down around him, and he slips inside so easily.

Harry gasps.

“Okay?”

Harry nods furiously. “More.”

Draco withdraws his finger and makes sure its neighbour is well slicked. He sets them at the entrance of Harry’s hole and pushes, and the noise he earns is guttural and beautiful.

He pushes until his fingers have disappeared inside of Harry, then slips them out, and in again. Harry stretches his legs even further apart and cants his hips. He almost grabs for Draco’s wrist, barely holds himself back, settling instead for a murmured, “Harder.”

Instead of harder, Draco settles his fingers all the way inside of Harry and crooks them the way he hopes he remembers Harry likes. The shouted profanity tells him his memory has held up.

The beginning of a smile creeps onto his face. He relaxes his fingers and pushes up again. Harry’s dick is leaking. His hips are shaking. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looks phenomenal.

“Harder,” he gasps again.

Draco pulls all the way out and slams his fingers into Harry’s arse. He can feel him loosening. Making way.

“More.” Harry seems to feel it too. “More, Draco.” He scrabbles for Draco’s arms, pulling himself up and clamping down on Draco’s fingers. “Fuck me now.”

“Yes,” Draco manages.

“Fuck.” Harry leans back, pulling Draco on top of him. “Need you inside me.”

“Yeah,” Draco breathes. “Need you. Need to be…fuck, yes.”

Harry hums his approval and relaxes under Draco, save one arm slung around his neck.

Draco lifts one of Harry’s legs over his shoulder. His cock is throbbing. He feels like he can barely make words. “I’m gonna be inside you.”

“Yes,” Harry pleads.

Draco takes himself in hand, sets the head of his prick against Harry’s hole and presses forward until Harry begins to take him in. It’s so tight. His skin is tingling, his thighs already weak.

He braces an arm to either side of Harry. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Harry exhales.

Draco pauses to look at him. “Now?”

Harry gives an exasperated laugh. “Now, you fucker.”

Draco grins, and drives forward and holy _fuck_ is Harry tight and hot, and something changes between them, changes in the air, when Draco’s entirely buried in Harry’s body. He wants, every animal cell in his body wants, to keep moving, but he doesn’t. He stops and looks at Harry, and Harry looks back at Draco, and pulls him down and kisses him. When he lets Draco go Draco just _looks_ at him for a moment, and then Harry nods, and the nod turns into a smile, and Draco smiles back, and shakes his head in disbelief, and then he slides halfway back out of Harry’s arse, and pushes forward, into Harry, twice as hard. And Harry arches and moans, low and throaty, and digs his fingernails into Draco’s shoulder blades and holds on for dear life.

The ragged points of Harry’s nails ground Draco. They’re the only thing that keeps him from floating away entirely. His mind is elsewhere; it’s all body now, and Harry, and the basic, irrefutable need to be inside the man underneath him.

Harry arches and cries out when Draco thrusts into him and rolls his hips just so, and then Harry’s gone too, descended into a stream of filth that Draco only half hears. But he knows enough to know what it means. Knows enough to do it, to match every demand for “harder” and “faster.”

He feels it coming, feels his thighs tingle and his bollocks tighten, knows he won’t hang on much longer.

He tries to slow down. Wants this to last.

Harry’s not having it.

“Fuck,” Harry pants, “No, don’t fucking stop.”

“Gonna – I’m gonna.”

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, and reaches down to grip his leaking cock, “Yeah, do it.”

“No, wanna—”

“Fuck, Draco, come. Want you to come so far up my arse I can taste you.”

“Don’t wanna stop.” Draco struggles to get the words out.

“Don’t stop,” Harry pleads. “Fuck me harder, wanna feel you tomorrow.”

Draco groans, almost tipped over the edge.

Harry squeezes around him. Draco can feel Harry’s hand working furiously between them. Still, he tries to slow down, to hang on.

“Draco,” Harry gasps, “come on. I’m gonna come too. Wanna come while you’re fucking me.”

“Harry,” Draco warns.

Harry pulls Draco's head down just far enough to breathe hot over Draco’s neck and whisper, “Draco, I want you. Come with me. Come inside me.”

Harry’s nails dig into his back and Draco’s fingers dig into the sheets and he can’t stop it any more. He explodes into Harry, so hard he sees stars, so hard the world comes down to nothing save Harry’s heat tight around his cock and the motion of Harry’s hand and Harry’s gasped profanities as something warm and wet splatters Draco’s stomach, and Draco falters, the strength in his arms giving way to something warm and lazy.

He lets himself collapse half on top of Harry, one arm spread across the bed, the other curled over Harry’s chest and into his hair. He can hear Harry’s heartbeat. It’s as fast as his, pounding through Harry’s sternum.

Harry’s fingers have relaxed against his shoulder blades. He can feel more than hear Harry let out a long sigh as he reaches down to ruffle Draco’s hair.

Draco gives the most half-hearted scowl of his life. Doesn’t even bother to turn it in Harry’s direction.

Some number of blissful minutes have passed—somewhere between one and infinity, Draco thinks—just like that, when Draco feels Harry tense. It shoots through his happiness in an instant.

He looks up to find Harry staring down at him, worry apparent on his features. Draco’s stomach clenches. “What is it?”

Harry shakes his head and furrows his brow.

“Harry.” Draco starts to sit up, but Harry’s hand flies out of his hair to grab his bicep, so he’s stuck leaning on one elbow.

“No,” Harry insists.

“Harry, what is it?” Draco thinks Harry’s nervousness is contagious, because his nausea is back, and he’s not sure whether to run or fight or pry the words from Harry’s mouth any way he can think of.

Still, Harry shakes his head, looking embarrassed, now, as well as afraid.

“Please. Harry. I’m worried. Tell me. Please.”

The scepticism that flashes over Harry’s features hurts but then, Draco thinks—he hopes—the words sink in.

Harry loosens his grip on Draco’s arm. “It’s breakfast.”

“Breakfast? You’re hungry?” Draco’s heard crazier things after sex, but it doesn’t seem proportionate to Harry’s nervousness.

“No. Not yet, but in the morning. You said, breakfast. Are you—are you going to…” He trails off. “Is there still breakfast?”

“Yes.” Draco’s heart aches. It sits heavy and low in his chest and it _hurts_ , but he still gets the word out before Harry has even given the question a chance to breathe. “Yes,” he repeats. “Merlin yes. Harry—“ he makes sure to catch Harry’s gaze before continuing—“yes. Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Harry’s voice is smaller than Draco ever wants to hear it again.

“Yes,” Draco answers. “A million times yes. A million breakfasts worth of yes.”

“If I go to sleep…?”

“I’ll be here when you wake.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what?”

“If you need to pee?”

“I’ll wake you first.”

“If there’s an emergency?”

“I’ll wake you before I go.”

“If you change your mind?”

“I won’t.”

Harry doesn’t look like he quite believes it. Draco does the only thing he—well, he doesn’t know how. He has no idea of how to do this, but it’s the only thing he can think of to try.

He lies back on the bed, looking at Harry across the pillows. “Still a light sleeper?”

“Yeah.” Harry furrows his brow.

“C’mere.” Draco opens his arms.

Harry looks supremely sceptical. “What?”

“Come here, would you?”

Harry inches over and tentatively, very lightly, lays his head on Draco’s shoulder.

“If I move, will you feel it?”

“Right now I will.”

Draco turns on his side and pulls Harry towards him, curling around Harry’s side, one arm under his neck, the other arm and a leg draped across him. “And now?”

“Yeah.”

“If I move in the night, you’ll feel it.”

Harry stops to think about it. “Yeah.”

“Can you sleep like this?”

“I don’t know.”

Draco sighs without meaning to, unsure of what, short of a self- _Incarcerous_ -ing, will convince Harry.

“But I want to try.”

Draco looks up, heart lifted, just a bit, by Harry’s words. “Okay. Let’s try.”

“Okay.”

“And if I move, you’ll feel it.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m not going to move.”

Harry pauses. “Okay.”

“Do you still like kippers?”

“I…yeah?”

“Okay. I needed to know.”

“For…?” Harry starts, but won’t quite finish the sentence.

“For breakfast.”


	6. Breakfast

“Pass the grapefruit would y—oh, dear.” Pansy withdraws her outstretched hand and dips into her robes as a quivering crimson envelope floats through a dining room window on the morning breeze.

“ _Incedio!"_ She shouts, aiming with perfect precision.

With a satisfied smile, she tucks her wand away and turns back to Draco. “The grapefruit, darling?”

He passes it over without comment.

“You know, Parkinson,” Harry pipes up beside him, “if we’d known your aim was that good we probably would’ve tried to recruit you.”

“Yes, well I’m afraid we’ll all have to make due with post-hoc apologies. My aim wasn’t nearly so good before the Historical Society photos hit the papers. Eating here’s become a regular exercise in target practise.”

“So, if we’d just sent you a lot of Howlers, then?”

Draco knows Pansy is still not wholly at ease with Harry. She doesn’t believe that he’s really joking about it, and in fairness to her, Draco’s thinks Harry’s jocularity is a bit dark at times, and not unintentionally.

But he’s trying. She’s trying. Blaise—who intervenes to suggest that it, “Might’ve worked, but would you really want that aim directed your way?”—is trying.

Draco is trying, too. It’s the scariest and best thing he’s ever done. Even if it meant spending a week walking around in a constant state of exhaustion from middle-of-the-night Howlers.

And phenomenal middle-of-the-night post-Howler sex.

He thinks the two just about balance out. And as the Howlers begin to taper off, he’s more and more convinced that he’s getting the better end of the deal.

Because, of course, the sex is phenomenal.

Because of the look on Harry’s face when he woke up to find that, true to his word, Draco had stayed the night.

Because Harry is very good at omelets, and it turns out they go very well with Draco’s fruit.

Because it turns out Draco likes sleeping with Harry—actually sleeping, next to him and on him and occasionally under him—even more than he’d remembered.

Because only two of the Howlers have come from Lucius, and none from Narcissa, and the threats to have Draco sectioned at St. Mungo’s have no real weight, Draco is assured by legal.

Because Draco hasn’t touched his Penseive since the day Potter arrived in his office; he hasn’t needed to.

He’s also been rather busy. The _Prophet_ got the tell-all, of course (or, the tell-almost-all, but then, no one ever really tells all) and sales have been through the roof. Higsbee had ruined one of Draco’s favourite handkerchiefs with crying over a bit of praise and an, admittedly rather substantial, raise.

And then there’s all the time spent with Harry.

And the extra time spent with Pansy and Blaise, to reassure them that he won’t disappear on account of Harry.

And the time spent with all three of them together. One breakfast a week, at least. Starting, awkwardly enough, when Pansy and Blaise tumbled through the Floo to find them half-clothed and feeding each other strawberries and cream in a rather suggestive manner.

But Pansy prevailed, and now it’s a regular thing. Draco knows the next step is Granger and Weasley, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t dreading it, and not in the “useful fear” sort of way. But when Harry first raised the question, he didn’t say, “eventually.” He said “I’m a bit worried,” and, “dinner, first Thursday of next month?”

“Draco,” Pansy singsongs. “ _Draco!_ ”

“Hmm?”

“Think he’s a lost cause,” Blaise intones.

“Mmm,” Harry agrees, with a grin.

Pansy ignores them. “The sugar, darling, would you?”

“Right, sorry.” Draco shakes his head clear and passes the bowl.

“Goodness,” Pansy continues on, sprinkling sugar over her fruit, “you’re just full of apologies lately, aren’t you?”

Draco looks at Harry, who’s moved on to trying to dig out a sliver of grapefruit, and shrugs. “Some things are worth apologising for.”

“The sugar, Draco, really?”

He makes a face at her. “No, Pansy, not really the sugar.”

“Is there some other criteria then? What merits a Draco Malfoy apology these days?”

It’s a rather long list, he’s realised. But that’s not really what she’s asking, or anything she doesn’t already know.

He leans back, folds his arms, and smiles. “It’s not really my area of expertise, darling. Ask Heathcote Barbary next week. Looks as though there are quite a few apologies in his future.”

“Oooh, really?” Grapefruit momentarily forgotten, Pansy leans forward, all ears.

Draco knocks Harry’s leg under the table, and when the increasingly familiar gesture is returned, he starts in on the next big thing that will have all of wizarding London talking.

**Author's Note:**

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